


Amativ

by PennyYearling



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: A Meet Cute But Covered In Someone Else's Blood, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Botched Time Travel, Dragonborn Through Other Means, Elenwen/OC, Emetophobia, Explicit Language, Falmer-Atmoran War, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Language Barrier, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader Discretion Strongly Advised, Slow Burn, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, Torture, Vague References To Kirkbride Lore, Vaguely Funny Chapter Titles, War, the kind that appeal to maybe 3 people and one of them is me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2020-03-17 02:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 54,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18956071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyYearling/pseuds/PennyYearling
Summary: The currents of time flow only ever onward, with little variance. Misrule takes is place in the eight corners, the Brass Tower walks, the Trice-Blessed fall. The White Tower is doomed to crumble, the Tower of Snow is destined to bleed, and one way or another, the Wheel will turn on the Last Dragonborn. It matters little where, or on who.One nameless Snow Elf finds this out the hard way.(Now with tasty translations for your reading convenience.)





	1. Everything is Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Elf. It's a confusing time.

__

    Cold metal broke her fall and knocked the air from her lungs. Her head toppled heavy to its side, allowing her to breathe the stale and aged air without the choking dust. Another breath, easier this time but only just. She was alive, though she was not aware of what _alive_ was. Alive and dead, never was and always had been, beginning and end, it all seemed to be the same in her state. There was a shudder that ran through her chest, begging her to do something, _anything_ , ease the pain.

_ _

A century passed before she took a shuddering breath, and she coughed on dust that accumulated from years of neglect. Another breath, still thick with age, nose pressed against cold metal. Slowly she learned how to breathe. The air was stuffy now, too warm for her and pungent with the smell of soldered brass. Her lungs were burning from miles of running, though she only ever knew herself to lie down, helpless as a newborn. Bright light surrounded her, and she was gone, scattered ash among the paths that were gone to never be trodden again. She formed again, too soon, too late, now lying in the same blinding light.

    _Blinding._ Blinded. No, no this could not be.

    For the first time, she opened her eyes. Light was a vector of fresh pain, and she shut them tight once more, too much to take in. It was another century before the ache faded, and she again opened her eyes. Through heavy lids she could see grey and dulled brass, now cooled and tempered. A path without an end stretched before her, allowing her to witness two sets of robes emerge slowly from a lower ramp. One spoke in calculations as the other played an atonal melody on their resonator. She rolled off the brass hill and landed hard on stone; the two in robes paid her no heed as they continued their songs and mathematics The first nearly finished his equation when they became smoke, then ceased to exist entirely. She startled at the sight and shot up, only to double over and vomit. Pale hands were splayed out below her, another century passing before she recognized them as hers. She slowly moved away from the sick and watched her hands move through the air, turning them about, watching in wonder as the fingers stretched and curled. They ached to hold.

    She held herself in the dim light and stone as another path became manifest, smelling of smoke and sweat. Steel and fire clattered and burned, deafening laughter echoed as pink skinned barbarians shattered crystal with ebony, stealing what was never meant to be theirs. The fools, they knew not what they had, what they had _done_ . She opened her mouth in a soundless scream as shards turned to aether and heathens became dust. Her voice returned after their sundering, chilling the air around her. She startled at the sound and cold, thankful of the chill and fearful of the noise. She was vaguely aware that she was standing now, leaning heavily against aged stone but _standing_ nonetheless. Her head dropped and she saw there was a body attached to her, a chest that encased her pounding heart, legs that trembled with strain, gleaming white strapped safe and secure to her waist. She grabbed for the dagger and basked in its warmth, the gentle affection of the one who had it before her. Her thumb traced the pommel as she drew the blade from its scabbard. It reflected light in the dim, then stone and grey and a face that frightened her. A century passed as she studied the pale unyielding metal, and it dawned on her that the face in the reflection was her own. She sheathed the dagger in disapproval at the sight, allowing herself another moment to take in the warmth of the hilt. Her racing heart stilled from its touch. There she stood, tracing the engravings on the scabbard, her touch against the warm ivory as light as she dared.

    She knew it was here with her, an absolute in the face of the uncountable paths, the maybes that danced and taunted. She stayed against the solid stone, another absolute, one hand gently stroking the dagger a shadow flew past her. She startled at the blur and dared to leave her shelter to follow. She looked up and saw it circle around the rounded roof, casting neither shadow or reflection against the metal and crystal. It was a blackbird, flying free in the stone and brass. It hovered just out of her reach and landed. Clutched tight in its talons was a scroll of glowing gold that beckoned for her to open it. She obeyed, taking her first trembling step as the bird took flight, singing as it escaped her. Its song echoed through the stone room as it glided through the stale air. She followed the wings and music, unsteady and uncertain as it lead her through a brass archway and into a narrow hall. At the end she saw the blackbird, resting atop a dull brass lever. Its feathers drank in the light from above, bright gold eyes staring at her, the song urging her onward. There it stayed as she limped to the end of the hall, half blinded from the lights above. It flew up and away, beyond her grasp, out of her sight. She glimpsed upward as a shadow passed her, roaring above a sky she had never seen, sending her crumbling to the stone.

    _ _

    Wind blew from above as she forced the lever to her and held on tight. Stone ground against stone, and she ascended into the light.

\--

    It was another century before all had stopped moving, and another before she realized the air was fresh and cold. She breathed the sweetness in deeply, and was content to stay in the cool and the quiet. She opened her eyes as they adjusted to the brightness.

    __

    She used the lever to support herself as she rose to her feet. The force knocked it back into position, and she startled away from the platform as it descended. She barely cleared the platform as it fell back into the pitch dark. There would be no going back, not to there, not from _here_.

    She knew this, and accepted it, but it terrified her all the same. She went back to her dagger as a hand grazed past her and light laughter filled her head. She wandered through the narrow hall, to the dim and the cold in search for the source. Her voice was weak, calling out wordlessly for it to return, to please come back for it was dark and he was her star in the night. No one heard her, for they all had gone with him, sinking like rainwater into the ground or scattered into wind. He was dead, she realized, and learned the terror of death and the pain it would leave for those who witnessed it. No no, that was not true, he was alive, she saw him, not here but he was alive.

    He was alive in the path that formed before her, narrow and already fading in the dark. Across the way, a bright light at the end of the treachery, she watched the Prince ride joyously on a pallid steed. His spear danced about him, whistling as its master sang of victory. She dared the peril and dashed to the path only for it to vanish upon her first step. He and his laughter mingled with the wind, and soon became a never. The sky darkened in mourning while two moons laughed in the unreachable skies. He was dead again, now and forever, and would never rise. He was alive, for she knew him and always would. Alive or dead, it did not matter for he was not _here_ . All was cold about her then, gone was his warmth and his love. She grew tight as hot tears formed in her eyes and dropped on the snow, _no no, not there, what would he say if he saw me weep like a woman._

    She felt her chest, and became aware that she _was_ a woman. Was it then alright to weep? None were left to answer, and years would pass before the tears would run dry. Yet another possibility emerged from the grey as her vision cleared, crumbling stone and embers dancing as they fell through the air. All was fire and dark, black wings unfurling rage and hate. All was still, unbearably so, before a terrible roar quaked the earth beneath her, sending her into black smothering terror.

She breathed the fires and returned to the air and snow. She turned about herself only to find she was no longer near the stone and brass. She half wondered if it ever existed, a maybe that was only allowed to exist to bring her to the air. The two moons that were high above now sank below the mountains, hiding behind the grey. A twinge of disappointment ran through her when she did not see the sun. He surely would have guided her, it was not his way to leave her in such a desperate state.

    __

    She picked herself up from the snow, though she did not remember falling down. One more breath, and she moved away through the air and the earth. She fell often, only to rise and continue on as the path she followed shifted under her feet, the trail leading to places possible and not. One step would be on enchanted ice, the other in fire and ash. A white stone archway would welcome her in its arms only to crumble as she passed through. Her legs were slow and aching from disuse. She pressed onward, knowing to move but not from what, from who. Another maybe formed behind her, war cries and burning flesh. An arrow whistled and pierced through, red and sharp and hot, how could metal _so cold be so hot_

    The arrow turned to dust in her skin, leaving only an absolute scar. A distant song reached her ears and called her through old pains and to the present. She followed it as the sky darkened and the first drifts of snow fell from the sky, kissing her skin and hair. The blackbird’s song rang louder, clearer as she tread through the cold and hot. With each note of the song, each step she took, her blood grew warmer, hotter until it nearly boiled in her veins. The snow that caressed her melted on contact, leaving beads of water that ran down her skin or stained the roughspun tunic. No no, this was not right. She was not born of the fire, she was born of the ice and snow, surely they would not forsake her.

    The blackbird’s song ended. She passed through an archway of stone, old, far too old, but after her. All around her grew bright and darkened in pulses, the ring of stones growing and crumbling. Through all the possibilities that haunted, the blackbird stood resolute with its golden scroll. It was guiding her, to where she did not know. Through the haze and snowfall, past the paths that would appear and vanish, she saw the glowing gold of the scroll in its talons. She could nearly reach it, she only needed to find the strength for a few more steps. Those final steps were through lead and thorns, and her legs gave out when she finally reached the dark wings and golden eyes. She reached out for the blackbird, for the gold scroll in its talons, as it disappeared with the winds. She touched only cold stone and steel, and the scales of a serpent doomed in its coil. Aching eyes glanced up, and she beheld the grim face of a demon she feared, a brother he loved, a traitor they scorned, a doomed god given earthly form.

    All became still. She urged herself to flee from his sight but found herself unable to move from him. She rose and fell hard against soft white and hard stone, her face buried in her hands. She turned in the cold white below her and begged for its protection. She was of the snow and ice, and surely it would keep her. She was of ice and of fire, hard scale and soft skin, gnashing fangs and falling tears. She had travelled too far and for too long to reach this place, and she longed to rest. Her head split apart inside her, and there she lay for hours, years, centuries. Past or future, here or there, paths taken and not, it mattered little to her.

 


	2. Two Days From Retirement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Thalmor. He's in over his head.

Hunting Blades agents was nowhere near as exciting as everyone made it out to be. So far, Rulan’s “hunt” composed of twelve hour marches in the bitter cold, keeping watch over the camp in the dead of night, and polishing everyone’s armor as if the Emissary herself was due to arrive. Ocanim had a habit of trudging through the mud, leaving his black Dominion armor absolutely filthy.

It was natural that the boots were caked in mud by midday as they continued through The Pale. East, the dispatcher said, a half day away from the ruins of Fort Dunstad. Should they reach the three-way crossroad, they had gone too far. The trio had gone too far, and were forced to spend the next hours backtracking. They stopped for the evening off the track, huddled by the magefire for warmth. Rulan took a sip of a regeneration elixir as the assigned mage and superior officer distributed their rations of Altmeri bread and dried meat. The trek was exhausting for him, and the cold certainly didn’t help matters.

He took another sip of the elixir and hoped feeling would return to his hands soon. Being only a new recruit, he wasn’t privy to enchanted armor and he felt every bit of the cold around him.  


“Save some for the rest of us.” Ocanim swiped the bottle from the young recruit and downed the rest of the elixir. He smacked his lips, knowing full and well how annoying it was, and grinned. “Much better.” Rulan tried to ignore his partner's habit and focused on keeping warm. As he hoped, sensation returned to his hands as he flexed and moved his fingers. His thumb still tingled, but he was sure it would go away.  


“Are we going to find anyone at these…” he struggled to remember the name of this place. Ocanim was ready to launch into a speech about the importance of knowing  _ where _ you’re going when their senior officer stepped in.

“Weynon Stones,” said the mage whose name Rulan had forgotten. He smiled as he fed the fire more of his magicka and rubbed his gloved hands over the large flame. “Were you briefed at all on the nature of this place?” Rulan averted his eyes in a silent "no". The mage simply nodded as Ocanim sneered. “No need to worry. To put it plainly, we have reason to believe this ruin is a secret meeting spot.”

“Among the Blades, right?”

“You’re correct. Blades, and possibly the remnants of the Weynon Sector. Hence the name, I suppose. Although why they would choose here of all places is beyond me. Cyrodiil, this certainly is not..” The mage warmed his face with magic and took a sip of his tea. Rulan leaned in a fraction just for the chance of catching a fragment of the spell. The wind howled around them and pierced through his armor. He couldn’t help but shiver, even when being so close to the unwavering fire. The mage passed his mug to the young scout. Rulan accepted it gladly and took a long sip of the mountain flower tea. It warmed him immediately.

“How many prisoners are we planning to take?”

“Ideally, just the one.” Ocanim grinned as he bit into his bread. He chewed loudly and slowly, making Rulan lose his appetite immediately. How someone so Nordlike became a top Talos hunter was beyond him. “We have an outpost near Eastmarch, makes for a nice spot to send these bastards. I’ll tell you, Cyrelian is an absolute genius with that lash of this--”

“Ocanim. Not while we’re eating.” The mage’s voice was as even as ever, but Rulan heard the edge in his words. Ocanim rolled his eyes but said no more. He tore half the crust off of his bread as he tore into it. The young scout made himself eat, to keep his strength against the cold.  


    And cold it was. As the night drew darker,  the wind about them wailed like a woman mourning her lover. Rulan huddled closer to the fire. He was from a port town and was no stranger to strong winds and storms, but there was something unnatural about Skyrim’s winds. They carried a bitter cold that always seemed to push them westward, back to Summerset. The winds kept their pitch as he turned in for the night. Ocanim was assigned first watch, which suit the young Thalmor just fine. He would ready their armor during his own shift.

\---

They were on the move come first light. The mage provided each agent with invisibility scrolls to keep under cover as they awaited the arrival of the potential Blades. Rulan’s head went light with excitement when they approached the circle of standing stones. He could see the Talos shrine and the statue. It looked like new, and was strangely clean of snow and frost. What looked like a burlap sack lay at the false god’s feet, half buried in a heap of snow.

Rulan didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

“Look there,” said Ocanim. He was pointing at the sack. “I’ll bet next week’s pay that it’s a dead drop. Someone will be here, and soon.” He retreated behind the stone, scroll in one hand, sword in the other. He beckoned Rulan to his side. “Fall in.”

The young scout swallowed his fear and obeyed. The mage cast a series of traps around the shrine that blended in perfectly with the snow. He retreated behind a distant stone and motioned for the two scouts. They readied their scrolls and cloaked under the magic, and there they waited.

Morning became midday without any sign of movement. Rulan shifted his feet to ease the ache and rubbed his eyes. He nearly missed the marching. At least then they were  _ moving _ .

“Are we sure that this is the place?” he whispered. Ocanim shushed him.

“Hunting means waiting, recruit. Now shut up and  _ wait _ .” His voice was low, threatening, eyes on the shrine and thinking only of fulfilling their mission. His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword, ready to strike at any moment. Rulan did the same as they waited under the cover of the mage’s illusion, wanting to at least sit down. The sun moved into the afternoon when his tired eyes tracked movement at the shrine. He and Ocanim stood to attention and watched.

The dead drop  _ moved _ . The burlap shifted upward from the snow, and he realized it was a person. No, it was an Elf, with skin and hair as white as the snow she emerge from. Rulan drew in his lips and bit down to keep from gasping at the sight. He tapped Ocanim’s shoulder questioningly only to be swatted away. They watched in silence as the strange thing eventually came to her feet. She stumbled about like a drunken bear, eventually finding the shrine of Talos with outstretched arms. She leaned against the cold steel, muttering words beyond Rulan’s understanding. He realized that she was probably praying, but it didn’t make sense.

Elves didn’t worship Talos, not the mantle of Lorkhan himself. Ocanim grinned, unaffected by the strange sight, and motioned to his subordinate. Rulan prepared to draw his sword as Ocanim took a confident first step.

“Valano,  _ now! _ ”

Their cloaks dispersed. The Elf started at the sight as they surrounded the shrine, the mage to her left, Ocanim just before her, Rulan taking position to her right. She stepped back to the statue of Talos, one hand to the dagger on her waist. She was shaking.

Ocanim took one small step to the Elf. The mage, Valano, that must have been his name, kept his hands readied, magicka aglow through his gloves. Rulan kept his arming sword up defensively.

“Speak your name,” Ocanim said, sharp and commanding. The Elf didn’t answer him, much to his irritation. “Why are you here?”

The Elf backed slowly to the statue and leaned on the serpent beneath Talos’ feet. She spoke, but the words were beyond Rulan. Beyond the others too, if the looks on their faces was of any indication. Ocanim only grew angrier; Valano’s brow shot up for an instant, then furrowed deep in thought. It was the most expressive he’d ever seen the mage. All the while the strange Elf moved her hands about as if reaching for something. Rulan couldn’t see her face for the long white hair. His head hurt from looking upon her too long.

“If that’s how you want to play this, very well.” With a sneer, Ocanim took another step to the Elf. He readied his sword and met the Elf. “In the name of the Aldmeri Dominion, we are placing you under arrest. Now, lower your weapon and--”

Metal flashed, the Elf danced to and from the Talos hunter, and Ocanim’s sword fell from his hand. He stumbled back in a stupor, a lazy hand finding its way to his throat. His gauntlets stained from the first drops of red that fell from his throat. Drops became a trickle, then a torrent as he fell dead into the stone and snow. She leapt over his body, clearing the worn stairs and landing hard into the snow. Rulan made to chase.

“No!” Valano ordered. A Paralysis spell was forming in his hand as he called out to the Elf, urging her to stop in the name of the Dominion. He said something else, words like music. She screamed an answer in the language Rulan didn’t understand and, before he could do anything, the pale Elf fired off a barrage of ice spikes.

They missed. A quickly summoned Ward protected Rulan from her attack, and one of the icy spears missed Valano by a hair. She ran again. Valano fired his spell. He hit her in the back and allowed a small smile as the fugitive fell into the snow. She grunted out in rage, unable to speak through her paralyzed throat and clenched teeth.

_ Or is that fear? _ Rulan swallowed his own fears and approached the mage. Her magic had actually grazed his sleeve and the surface of his skin, but he was already mending it with the gentle glow of a healing spell.

“Are you alright?” Rulan asked more for himself than the mage. He tried in vain to stop his shaking.

“Yes, I’m quite fine.” Valano was already moving to the Elf. He turned her body over and flinched upon touching her. “By the Dominion.. No, stay where you are.” The mage raised a stopping hand to Rulan as he searched his person. “There it is..” From his pouch he drew a sack hood, bundling the Elf’s hair into it as he pulled it over her head. A faint blue glowed from his hands as he secured the drawstring and felt the neck, ensuring she could breathe relatively easy. She shrieked her protests, but the paralysis held tight. Valano then moved to the dagger, removing it and the leather frog around her waist as the Elf screamed. Valano silenced her with another spell as he examined the blade. His eyes were wide with wonder, and he spoke again in that strange  


“What’s wrong? Why’d you..”

“This is your first hunt, isn’t it?” said Valano. Rulan nodded. “Captives tend to be more.. Cooperative when blinded, after the first few moments of protest. And this one is, well, you’ve already seen enough horror for one day.” He allowed a smile at the young scout and returned to the paralyzed prisoner. “Now, speaking of cooperation..” A second spell formed in his hand as he touched the sack. The Elf grunted and shrieked her protests. Rulan half swore he saw her finger twitch. “Easy, girl.. It’s easier if you just.. Damn it.” The spell dimmed in his hand. He winced again as if in great pain.  


“What happened?” he asked.

“This one is quite stubborn, is all. Mindsight will do little here.” Valano muttered something else, but Rulan didn’t quite catch it. He watched as the mage’s brow furrowed just so another spell manifested in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he fired the new spell to the Elf, and waited. Light blue footsteps appeared before them, starting with her leap, twisting about as she slew Ocanim, dancing back to the Talos shrine where she lay. There it stayed for some time before Rulan saw more, backtracking from the shrine, westbound. The mage picked up the Elf and hefted her over one shoulder, not saying a word as he followed the tracks. Rulan followed dutifully, wondering if every mission would be like this.

Rulan followed the mage until the sun set in the west, and the first stars were beginning to shine. Nothing seemed to faze Valano as he tracked the Elf’s steps. Rulan then saw the mage’s boots were alight in magicka, allowing him to tread through the rough terrain without effort. He sorely wished he paid more attention in his magicka classes as he climbed over the rocks and ice. The mage came to a stop when the moons finally rose. Rulan stood to attention alongside the mage and followed his gaze.

Before them was a Dwemer tower and a destroyed camp. The air here was colder, drier, Rulan thought. The light blue tracks from Valano’s spell lead to a lift that was frozen over completely. The mage lowered the Elf into the snow and cast a detection spell. Aside from the two Thalmor and their new prisoner, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

“Curious. Most curious.” Valano rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Rulan wanted to ask what this place was, but thought better than to question the mage. They were both silent for a long time, the Elf’s grunts and muffled shrieks the only sound between them. Eventually Valano struck her with another Paralysis, silencing her as he cut her hand with the pale dagger. He removed his glove and did the same, his hand alight in magicka as their blood mingled. His faint gold turned a pure white as the droplets disintegrated, and his spell faded into nothing. “And more curious still..” He healed himself again and turned to the Rulan. The young scout saluted, not knowing what else to do.

“Rulan, is that right?” the mage’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper in the still and the cold. Rulan nodded his answer. “Rulan, there’s been a change in plans. We’re to deliver this asset to our post in Eastmarch, then report to Elenwen immediately.” The mention of the Emissary sent a chill down Rulan’s spine. The severity of the mage's tone did little to ease his nerves.

“What do you mean? What’s going on?”

The mage was silent for a moment, staring down at the Elf. Her fingers twitched again, and he struck her with another Paralysis. He focused his attention back to Rulan with a smile on his face.

“I have a theory. If it proves true, then we’ve come across something more than some mere heretics. Now, we haven’t a moment to lose.”


	3. Fun Box! Fun Box! Small And Square And Dark!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Kaidan. He's not having a great time.

    Kaidan held his breath for five seconds before allowing it to leave him. It helped some with managing the pain, and so long as the pain was manageable, he could think. He thought of possible escape plans, ranging from somehow breaking the manacles and picking the lock to overpowering the Thalmor guards and retrieving his sword. So far, they all seemed impossible, or would end in his death. He nudged a loose stone on the floor and thought of using it to bust open the lock, then the justicar’s skull. If he was going to break the lock, he would need his hands, and so he circled back to the beginning. The only times his wrists were free of the sturdy locks were seconds after a Paralysis. He could withstand the magic better if they hadn’t kept him weak from poisoned lash strikes and hunger. He found himself at zero again.

    It was frustrating to even think about it. He took in another breath and held it for another few seconds. He exhaled as he shifted form one foot to the other. His back grazed against the hewn stone, which may as well been razor wire against the lashed skin.

    “Shit.” He clenched his jaw tight and held, waiting for the pain to pass. The burning finally ebbed, leaving only the aches from yesterday’s questioning. He thought the last round was yesterday, anyway; the two guards have been unusually quiet, and with their gossip went Kaidan’s only reliable way of knowing how long he’d been in this prison. He thought back to the last thing he overheard, a difficult task with all things considered. The younger one with the mace, he was going on about the “new arrival”. That was three days ago, or three long and restless sleeps, whichever. He wondered who they found and why they were bringing the poor bastard here of all places. Knowing the Thalmor, it was either a suspected Talos worshipper or Blades agent.

    Cyrelian was convinced that Kaidan was the latter, no matter how many times he argued it. No, arguing it only made the Thalmor son of a bitch angrier. Kaidan thought of what answer would finally convince them as the two guards escorted him to the questioning room and tied him down. He tried the truth, tried telling them that he had no idea, but they were convinced otherwise. He tried lying, saying the rest were holed up somewhere else, but his pauses gave him away, and the lash would hit harder. He tried silence, but Cyrelian made damn sure that wasn’t an option. Pride only got him so far in the face of sharp steel and sickening stamina poison.

    He adjusted his wrists in the tight irons as Cyrelian entered, footsteps as soft as ever. His whip cracked the air in warning.

    “Let’s start at the beginning,” he said. “Your name?”  
    Kaidan rolled his eyes and answered. This part was easy. Behind him, Kaidan heard the metal of his stolen sword as it was unsheathed. One of the guards moved in front of him, showcasing the ebony blade, the pale markings on its base.

    “What do you know of these markings?” Cyrelian asked. The leather of his whip creaked as he stretched it.

    “Not a damned thing.” It was the truth, at the very least.

    Cyrelian didn’t accept the answer. He _tsked_ his disappointment. His lash cracked the air again, the tip grazing Kaidan’s shoulder. The steel burned with stamina poison.

“Tell me where you got this sword,” Cyrelian continued his usual line of questioning. He was tired, Kaidan thought, or annoyed with something. The rest of his treatment was a coin flip.

    “I’ve told you already, I’ve had it.” Again, it was the truth. He had the nodachi since he was strong enough to use it, or rather when old Brynjar finally decided he was. The Thalmor didn’t accept the answer, and so the lash flew and stung his skin. Another that cut deeper, harsher, _hotter_. Kaidan gritted his teeth and bit back a grunt of pain. Worse had been done, he told himself. Worse had been done.

    “Tell me where the others are.” There was the next question, and he answered plainly.

    “It’s just me, always has been--” The lash cut him deep that time, white hot and sharp. Kaidan’s vision blacked out for an instant. There were still spots in his sight when the third question came with another terrible strike, and he knew that today Cyrelian was annoyed.

    “Where are you Blades hiding?”

    “Never knew a Blade, all thanks to you--” The lash cut deeper into him and took his breath. He just barely regained it when the next demand came.

    “Tell me who you report to.” The Thalmor was getting angry.

    “To whoever’s putting coin in my pocket, you son of a bitch--”

    Cyrelian raised his lash and Kaidan tensed for the sharp steel when someone called out. There were hurried footsteps then a sudden stop at the entrance to the interrogation room.

    “Sir!” It was the younger guard, riled up by something. “The agents from the Weynon Stones have arrived. You’ll-- you’ll want to see what they found.”

    “This better not be a waste of my time.” Cyrelian patted Kaidan on the back, sending a bolt of storm magic into his wounds. He bucked against his binds and bit back a yell of pain, his nerves alight with electricity as he convulsed. “Don’t go anywhere.” The Thalmor justiciar laughed as he departed with the young guard. Kaidan willed himself to return and listen in, more to take his mind off the searing pain in his everywhere than out of any genuine interest.

    Cyrelian was complaining loudly about being interrupted, and only grew more irritated at whoever was waiting for him. Another voice cut in, even but severe, and the conversation went quiet. Kaidan started to feel light in the head, from fatigue or bleeding or the poisons he couldn’t guess. There was the sound of movement after another few minutes of muffled conversation. One voice was higher, nervous, and travelled clearly to his ears.

    “Careful! She’s got claws!” Then a snarl, a startled cry, and a heavy thud. _Did they have a bloody sabre cat?_ Kaidan willed himself to stay awake just for a while longer as the commotion drew closer. He craned his head to catch a glimpse of the Thalmor justiciars as they walked through the doorway, Cyrelian and another in robes, then the two guards and a third he didn’t recognize. The three of them were carrying a body, human enough, and stiff with Paralysis. He didn’t see any more, they were gone too quickly. His captor and another trailed behind. The other wore robes that were trimmed neater than Cyrelian’s, as if made with finer silks.

    “Keep it weak, but keep it _alive_ ,” the second Thalmor jusitcar said. “As little stimulus as possible, it’s..” The rest was lost to him as they moved further below, sound and sensation becoming hazy as his grip on consciousness slipped. Kaidan was vaguely aware that the guards arrived some time later, and he was too tired to resist the Paralysis. He idly thought of how easy it would be to cleave their limbs from their bodies as he was dragged back to his cell, unable to act on it. Not without a weapon.

    Not without his sword. He wondered if he’ll ever hold it again as he fell into the fog.

 

    The sounds of a struggle roused Kaidan from an uneasy rest. He slowly raised himself to relieve the strain on his wrists and leaned against the stone wall. Sleep no longer an option, he opted to listen. Cyrelian was barely keeping his voice even as another snarled and swore words beyond Kaidan’s understanding. Metal clanged, Cyrelian cried out in pain, then came a thud of Elven armor against skin. There was the sound of a metal chain running through, and a soft groan.

    “If that’s how you want to play it, then _fine!_ ” Cyrelian’s lash cracked the air. Leather and steel flew once more and Kaidan heard the tearing of skin. The struggling grew louder, now interjected with grunts and cries of pain. One of the guards cried out in fear just as something impacted against metal. The lash flew again, and again, each time followed with a pained grunt that would become a shriek. It went on until there was silence, then Cyrelian’s heavy breathing. “ _Behave_ next time..”

    Footsteps approached. Kaidan went limp and hung his head, lowered his breathing as the Thalmor approached his cell. From the corner of his eye he saw a furious Cyrelian, holding one side of his face as red leaked out from between his fingers. He was followed by his cohorts, both of them with a look of unease. One’s chest plate was specked with red. The other was wiping a dark liquid from his face.

    “Sir.. What do we do with her? She won’t..”

    “ _It_ will learn. And if it won’t, maybe Valano will hurry up before the wretched thing wastes away.” Cyrelian rolled his lash into his belt and walked away. The guards followed dutifully, though one gave pause. Kaidan waited as they disappeared upstairs, and finally took a breath in relief. The coast was clear. He allowed himself to rise and rest against the wall, felt his neck crack as he stretched and scanned each cell for the new inmate. The first still held a skeleton from years past, reaching for a rusted dagger. The second lay empty, the cell door broken. Same with the third. His eye wandered to the gate to the lower level.

That had to be it. Kaidan knew it fairly well; he’d been down there for a night or two after an especially rough round of questioning. It was colder than his current holdings, pitch dark and damp. In his current cell, he had the wall to lean against. There was nothing down there, only a set of chains hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room.

 _Whoever it is, they’re getting the full treatment today_ , he thought as he leaned his head back against the stone and stared at the ceiling. It had rained recently. Water dripped down from the center stones and onto the floor. He recounted as much as he could with each drop. He remembered the lake he was camping at, the night before the Thalmor ambushed him. It was just south of Riverwood, he recalled, maybe a half day’s travel from the village and three days from the Pale Pass. Kaidan wondered if he’d stayed at the inn if he’d be in this predicament. He then wondered if he’d ever go back that lake where he left his modest tent and gear, or if it was destroyed after his capture. He wouldn’t put it past the Thalmor to burn it down completely, leaving him only with his armor and sword.

And both were taken from him. He had nothing.

“Focus,” he hissed to himself. There would be a way out, eventually. One of the guards will slip up, he thought. During one questioning, the binds will be just loose enough. There would be an oversight, somewhere, and he would get out of here. If he could somehow see or talk to the other prisoner, maybe they could form a plan. Maybe they could provide a distraction as he moved for the kill, or keep them busy as he stole their keys and stole his armor back. He ran his foot over the stones, feeling for the loose piece. It was still there, at the end of his range. Good. Kaidan glanced over at the entrance to the lower cell. There were noises below, no doubt from the new arrival. They spoke in a harsh tongue, then sharp and quick words. When there was no answer, they shouted wordlessly. A brief chill hung in the air, then all was silent.

It stayed silent until the two guardsmen returned hours later. There were more harsh words from below as they unlocked his cell door. The older guard’s hand was aglow with familiar and dreaded magic. Kaidan braced for the Paralysis, but it froze his throat and limbs all the same. There wasn’t a struggle as they dragged him to their makeshift interrogation room, and only a grunt in protest when his tormentor walked in, as quiet as ever.

Kaidan thought of bashing Cyrelian’s head against the wall as leather whistled through the air, and steel cut into his skin.


	4. Fun Box! Fun Box! Check Out These Cool Fun Locks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the Elf. Weird shadows talk in shouts, extinct Elves try and poison her, and she's went and lost her favorite thing.

    It was steam that obscured, then smoke that clouded, then the blur of staring up at the world from under the waves. In the dancing maybes two moons glared down before being swallowed by void black, and down she fell, into blood and fire. She left part of herself behind in the heat and heretic steel, and another in the snow and clatter of battle, more still in a maelstrom of burning bright light. She moved without moving through all the inbetweens on wings she lost, never had. No, that was not right. Hers were swift, strong, and once she flew forever.

    Where did she go? Where did the little blackbird go?

_ _

She took a rasping breath, and long winter sighed. It was not what was asked, but it was all she knew to do. To remember at all was to witness, and to be remembered was to  _ be _ . There was nothing about her that remained constant, and refused to be witnessed. Brass vents, green fire, and dark banners, they all danced about but refused to commit to recognition, refused to be remembered for they were not  _ here _ , and she was not  _ there _ . To touch them was to be pricked by innumerable needles, to be burned by their heat and cold. So touched and burned and drifted until she was pulled to a lazy current that swirled about the empty room. The rising waters reached her waist, neck, above her as voices above called out, steel clattered and the dying gasped their last breaths.

They had died here, by way of steel and stagnant water, and restless they haunted. The realized spirits were no more but their pains remained, deaf to all but her ears. She willed herself to follow, to speak and let herself be heard, to be found. The stale air became cool with her words, but they did not hear her. She spoke again, louder, clearer, a struggle to conceive the idea of words and language, and at last she found solid ground. It was stone she found, rough and hewn but  _ here _ with her. With the constant of cool earth came the pains, starting with the aching in her arms and legs. Slowly sensation came to the rest of her, and she knew the stinging of her back and the pangs in her stomach. She became aware that she had limbs to ache, a body that was not nourished, and deep cuts that would leave raised scars. To be in pain was to  _ be _ , and she was. Slowly she moved her wrists about, and found resistance in chafing irons above her head. A wave of fatigue washed over like the floodwaters, and she was dimly aware of the faint light from above. There she realized there was blood to be spilled, blood that had been spilled, and the unique sting of powerlessness. Her vision returned after a century of pitch black, and in the dim she realized where  _ here _ was. It was a cell, and she was alone, but recollection of how she came to  _ here _ evaded her.

_ _

    In the dimness a void form watched her, and it sang as it spread its wings. The song was one she had known. She had been here before, she thought, or sometime similar. Empty hunger, stark pain, this she recalled, this she knew, and at last she was able to realize. She had been here in ice and steel with bones she realized were broken once, again in dampness and heat with a will that would not fracture.  _ Here _ was different, and not. The dimness remained a constant, but the surroundings were stone that held no heat, metal that did not cut, irons that took her will but not her flesh.

    No, she had not been  _ here _ before. Death and desperation hung low, as they would, but there was another ungraspable sensation, something that tugged at a fragmented memory. It was rainwater, she realized, and the smell of a coming storm. This made her glad and fearful in equal measures, and the contradictions nearly made her fall into void. She found a focal point in the sounds above, close yet distant, but only drew nearer. A command snapped through idle whispers, and three shadows bore down, total darkness against dim light. She thought them half-formed robes, emotionless movement and resonators humming with their movements. They stopped before her, melting into a parody of an Elven form. They  _ had _ to be Elves, their shoulders were not broad, their tongue not an insult to her ears. Two moved to each side, the one stayed in front. A bottle uncorked near her, the smell of a stone stomach wafting through the air and reaching her nose. Cold calculus spoke to her then, all poison and promises, eat, little thing, eat and forget.

    She refused, as she had done before, as she had always done. A leather hand grabbed her as she struggled, forcing open her jaw and shoving the poison in. It forced her mouth shut, holding as the liquid sloshed in her mouth. A voice commanded her, struggling to keep her mouth closed as she thrashed against the robes and the armor, spitting the poison out and cursing them between clenched teeth.  _ No, no, you will not do the same to me, I refuse, I refuse, I would sooner die than lose my eyes _

    A gloved hand struck her hard against the face. It gripped her again, searing hot touch against a fresh wound, and in the struggle she could taste the traitor’s fruit on her tongue. It was sour, worse than rancid water, and she forced it out once more, kicking away from robes and the leather gloves, away from light metal and demanding shouts in too many tongues, haze gripping tight in her head and sending her away, fighting against overpowering currents then jerking against rough hands on skin. 

_ _

All became dark and silence and senselessness. It was another century, or only a moment before she returned. She blinked as vision slowly unblurred, alone again in the cell and her back marred with white pain. She arched herself and felt the sting of steel against her once again. Warmth seeped down and tickled her back, and she knew they would mark her. Iron bars cast a shadow down on the floor, wavering just so from a flickering torchlight somewhere, nearby but impossibly far away. Dust settled into stone and kicked up again as possibilities came before her, faint dances in the unfocused eye. Above her was a low groan in pain, an absolute to spite the maybes. She listened closely, focused on the low incomprehensible words and sharp gasps. She bid him to not drink their cordials or eat their fruits, it was all poison, it would blind him too, as it did the proud and the broken, all but her it would seem, so the pallid saviors turned traitor would tell her. To speak was a labor and her voice felt as weak as the first frost, but perhaps he would hear her, and find strength.

Strength. She held it in herself, though the body was wasted. Above her, the irons chilled upon the touch of her skin as she tested the siphon. Hers was strong, but binds prevailed. Weak fingers curled into her palms and pierced her skin, and the warmth of her blood trickled down. To be warm was to be alive, was to be  _ here _ .

From  _ here _ , she moved, slowly. She had been in a familiar situation, this she knew. She had been held before, bound and tormented. They wanted secrets, they wanted slaves, and she gave neither.

_ _

Much of her ached, the arms from the binds that drained her will, the legs from standing for far too long, her throat raw from her resistance. She stood still,  Something sour and metallic hung in her mouth, and her stomach felt sick.

_ Poison, the bastards found a way, no, no no no no get it out get it out _

Her stomach contracted and she tried to force the poison out, to no avail. She coughed and hacked, trying to induce expulsion, anything to keep her sight and her mind. The hacks became dry sobs, as there was no spare water to create tears. Her arms reached down before remembering the binds, unable to touch the hilt that brought her comfort and soothed the nerves, sated the rage until it was time to unleash against the hated enemy. The exertion made her sick and fatigued, and yet another century had gone, twisted and tormented. Darkness set in at long last but the fear remained as sharp and terrible as ever.

_ Fear _ .

She was afraid. It was not new, not to her, long she had known its grip. Their fruit was meant to calm, and she was not. To feel fear was to feel at all. She opened her eyes and found herself, dim and hazy but still herself, and found she could still  _ see _ . It was not the toxin she fought against, but something weaker, something she  _ knew _ . She still felt fatigued, and her head was heavy stone, but she forced herself to awaken, to experience it. Dim firelight, sounds of a man in pain, the squeaking of a rat, the aching in her limbs and the pangs of hunger in her stomach, she took it all in. She nearly sobbed in thankfulness, for it was  _ here _ , and so was she. When a tear finally did come she savored it, and was glad to feel it reach the ruin on her side. To know the sting of salt was to to know, and she  _ knew _ . Her head dropped down to rest. She was glad to know fatigue, but it was still heavy on her. The roughspun tunic on her seemed more ragged and dirtier, and she wondered for just how long she was gone.

It ached to think, but she could still do so. For the first time in eons, she could  _ think _ . Long and far she had gone, and not without its side effects, but at last they too faded into nevers. Gone were the brass vents and steam, strange banners and broken spirits, floodwaters and riots. The world around her slowly became solid, and she could finally gain a hold. It ached, everything did, but to feel pain was to  _ feel _ . To know the dull throb in her legs, the sting of raw skin, to know it all was to  _ know _ . Her eyes wandered fresh, and beheld empty walls and dim firelight above. Thunder rolled softly in a distance, and she  _ knew _ a storm was coming. The loose rags about her scratched, but she could feel, and to feel was to know.

Loose. About the waist she was loose. No, no that was wrong. She kept herself tight and coiled to strike, always. She searched frantically for the leather belting, the comfort of his favor, but it was gone.

“No.” It was only a whisper, but one that shook the skies that were long gone from her.  _ No, no no no that was his, he gave it to me, I know I had it, I would not dare to part with it _

    Armored footsteps broke her from the everchain of thought. Theirs were even, measured, the gait of guardsmen and traitors. Loud and heavy they were from their ornaments, the reek of their poison on her, and she  _ knew _ . They had found her, and they took her, and they had stolen her favor. The fear and the swirling storm solidified, and she tempered it to sharp anger, a weapon, a will ever tested and ever true. She pulled down, tucked her legs under her, and she sat suspended without her skill. One bind was looser she found, and the bones in her shifted and popped as her hand slid out of the iron. The other held fast, far too fast, but she had one freed arm. It would be enough. It was enough when they last had her bound, last tried to break her will, and their surprise was sweet. It was enough with a body half broken, and the interlopers fled in delicious terror, and their blood was hers.

    Three shadows stood cold and solid before her, and she knew they were to weaken her, make her break, to take his warmth and his love and keep it from her until she gave in. Their hated foes were too slow, their saviors turned traitors more foolish, and now the strangers above too arrogant.

    She knew her wings were clipped, her skill drained, but they did not have the foresight to take her talons.

    Thunder rang out outside, and she knew that there would be blood.


	5. Acts Of Senseless Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of like a meet cute, just with some homicide.

Two days, or what he thought were two days had passed since the new prisoner arrived. Whoever the Thalmor had below, they were no end of trouble during their routine checks. On more than one occasion, a guard would be bruised or his armor dented, or Cyrelian would be limping and leaning on his cohorts. Other than the screams and shouts during the Thalmor’s “visits”, the prisoner would otherwise be completely silent. After each interaction with whoever was held below, Cyrelian would take his frustrations out on Kaidan. The questioning then became a formality; the justicar just wanted something to feel pain.

“Where are they?!” He didn’t even wait for an answer as the lash cracked air and skin, some residue of poison still left on the steel. That stung worse than the metal ever could, seeping into his blood and weakening him. “Where in the gods-damned Oblivion are they?!” Three more with his shouting, the first taking his breath, the second his sight, and the third his consciousness.

    Kaidan woke hours later in pitch dark. There was a chill in the stale air and what he swore was whispering from below. The guards left him on the floor that night, not even bothering to chain him to the wall. As his vision slowly came to, he could see the vague shapes of them standing before the gate to the lower cell, talking quietly among themselves. One held a slender metal pipe and a look of obvious discomfort. He realized the whispering was from the guards. Their words began to make sense the more Kaidan returned to Nirn.

“Valano was clear with his orders, and we tried everything else.”

“You were stationed at Northwatch, you know this doesn’t always work,” the Thalmor motioned with the metal piping. A stone formed in Kaidan’s stomach when he realized it was a feeding tube. “Maybe if.. Look, we don’t even answer to that flat foot, why are we even..”

“Are you questioning the chain of command, Norion?” The sharpness in his voice could have cut cloth. There was no answer. He sighed and shook his head as he stared down below. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The guardsmen disappeared into the dark. They didn’t have to struggle with their prisoner, not this time. One voiced his discomfort as the other talked to the prisoner. There was a grunt and a gag below, then uncomfortable silence. Kaidan closed his eyes and tried not to think too much on it. Eventually he heard the Thalmor take their leave. He was equal measures enraged and exhausted.

“When I get out of here..” he muttered. Fatigue took him before he could finish his thought, and it followed him into a hazy dream of revenge. He saw each and every one of those Thalmor bastards beg for mercy, and their answer was blood and pain.

\---

 

The sound of thunder roused him from a hazy sleep, and the sounds of a struggle below gave him a rough idea that it was morning. It wasn’t the usual shrieks and grunts of whoever was below, and Cyrelian wasn’t swearing, his lash wasn’t flying through the air. No, this was different. They were alone. They were whispering. Or was it singing? Kaidan couldn’t tell what they were saying for the coming storm. They fell silent when the thunder died down and only continued whatever they were doing when the thunder returned. They grunted sharply, metal rang, and then came the soft laughter just as the familiar footsteps came down to the cells.

“What’s going on down there?!” Cyrelian called out when he cleared the stairwell. He rushed down with his lackeys just behind him and stopped at the entrance to the lower cell. It took him no time to realize what was going on. He laughed. “Oh, that’s just precious.. Reminds me of..” Cyrelian’s cruel grin faded when he saw Kaidan on the ground instead of against the wall. He sneered. Kaidan returned it with a rude gesture. “Why aren’t you-- Nevermind. I’ll see to you after I take care of our other guest.”

The guards had already disappeared into the dark. Cyrelian followed suit and slammed the door shut behind him,and it took no time for the Thalmor to realize what was going on below. He laughed. It was cold and spiteful, and he stopped only to taunt the unlucky thing. “By the Dominion, you never learn! Norion, Yvondil, get this thing back into proper order. We’ll see if a few more lashings will set it right.”

The sound of Cyrelian’s lash snapped Kaidan out of his haze. His back burned just from listening to the crack of leather in the air, and the struggle began right on time.

“Hurry it up!”

“We’re trying! She’s putting up a--”

“ _ It _ shouldn’t be overpowering two of my personal guards, Norion!”

Thunder roared, not from outside Kaidan realized, but from within the cell. It shook the foundations of the prison and sent a few loose ceiling stones crashing down into the hall. It was enough to make Kaidan forget his pain and fatigue, retreat to the furthest wall and watch for something. The thunder came again in a word that somehow made him afraid. He fought against its grip, he couldn't be afraid, not now, not when he finally had a chance to get out--  


     A man screamed blue murder, the door rattled and flew open, and from the dark Cyrelian and just one guard emerged. Both were pale with terror, and the guard was walking with a noticeable limp. Blood trickled from his ear. Kaidan’s own ears were ringing from the booming thunder outside. The justicar fared better, but he held his face as they hobbled away. Cyrelian fired a spell at the door and it slammed shut behind them.

“We can’t leave.. We can’t leave him..” his guard said meekly.

“We can and we are!” Cyrelian shot back. There was more fear than rage in his voice. “We’re leaving, and we’re going straight to Elenwen! I’ll have Valano’s head for this!”

    Below, the prisoner snarled, Elven metal clattered to the floor, and the unlucky bastard left behind cried out as metal hit skin and bone. Another crash of thunder sent him reeling, his hands to his ears to block it out. They weren’t enough to block out the Thalmor’s cries, the sharp snarls and howls of agony. Both Thalmor froze at their cohort’s pleas for help, but neither dared to go back and aid him. Then quiet came, heavy and cold. The one guard shouldered his load off and turned towards the dark.

    “That’s not going to hold her, not that witch..” His voice was muffled in the suffocating silence.

    “Which is why we need to leave!  _ Now _ , Norion!” Cyrelian barked. He held his injured leg and swore when his healing did nothing to close the wound. The Thalmor guard rose to his feet and readied his mace. He didn’t look at his commanding officer.

    “I’ll.. I’ll hold her off. For.. for the Dominion,” he said. “I will only slow you down..”

    Cyrelian already fled. The guard watched and gripped his mace tightly when a force crashed against the metal bars. Another push and storm magic crackled in his hand. There was an instant of breathless quiet before the roar of thunder, and the third and final impact was its crescendo. The cell door flew open, and from the dark their prisoner stumbled out.

    She was pale as death, the rags stained dark with blood and Divines knew what else. Both arms were bare, strong and streaked red from her kill. One wrist was still bound, the other raw and bruised; that hand was dark with bruising, and the thumb was in an unnatural position. Her fingers flexed and stretched, wanting to tear.The rags on her back were ribbon, no doubt from Cyrelian’s work. Long and dirty hair hung over a face Kaidan did not want to see, and through the mess a pointed ear stuck out.

_     An Elf? _ Somehow that surprised him more than the door flying off its hinges. The pale thing straightened up, noticed the guard and his defenses, and snarled.

    She broke into a stumbling run. The guardsman fired his lightning and missed his target entirely. The prisoner Elf closed in on him and found his neck as the guard’s mace found her side. The bludgeon hit her hard, but it did little to stop her as her hands found his armor, and those sharp fingers finally tore. He cried out and fell back, tried to strike her again as she pulled away his armor. The helmet was the first to go, then scraps of Elven plate with the shrill screech of metal. He pushed and punched at her, panicked cries turned to screams in pain. Kaidan nearly thought the bastard was trying to plead for mercy, but the wet choking gurgles and flailing made it impossible to tell. The Elf snarled, there was a sickening  _ squelch _ , and finally all became terrible silence.

    The Elf took a sharp and pained breath. Kaidan held his.

    “ _ Abaya sigil _ ,” she whispered. She winced and held her side, the free hand frisking the body under her. The Elf spat red when she touched the Thalmor’s arming dagger. Slowly she rose, leaning against the wall to support herself, and shambled up the narrow stairwell. The storm quieted, and in the stillness Kaidan waited for the pounding in his heart to calm.

    He recalled what Brynjar once said, that if you weren’t afraid, you weren’t understanding the situation. He fully understood what was going on, and he watched for any movement as he returned to the cell door. He readied the broken floor stone and struck the lock once, twice, and once more before it finally gave out. The door swung open with a low creak, but instead of running out like a madman, Kaidan took a slow and uncertain step outside. Nothing except silence and a creeping dread greeted him. He took a steadying breath as he moved down away from the cells and through the empty hall, wary of traps or somehow more Thalmor. 

_     Or the Elf _ . He looked over at the darkened corridor where she emerged and realized there were bloody footprints on the stone. He dared not see what she did to the Thalmor left down there, and instead moved to her more recent kill. This one didn’t fare any better, he guessed. His gorget was torn off, and half of his neck and face were gone with it. The sight nearly made him sick. After taking a few breaths to gain his bearing, Kaidan picked up the dead man’s mace and weighted it in his hand. One handed weapons were never his strong suit, but it would do in case he ran into trouble. Kaidan kept himself as quiet as he could as he searched for his stolen gear. Cyrelian screamed somewhere, upstairs he reckoned. It only spurred him on.

\---

    Kaidan finally found what could only be Cyrelian’s quarters deeper in the prison. His sword was the first thing he saw, resting next to his bow against an old wardrobe. He was to it in a flash, unsheathing the blade and checking it for any damage. Aside from careless fingerprints, the ebony was as sharp as ever; a practice swing cut through the wooden bed posts with no effort. He found the hilt’s cord wrap was frayed a hair towards the pommel, but the rest held against whatever abuse the Thalmor inflicted. The pale markings down the sides of his blade were dusted with charcoal as if someone had tried to rub the markings onto parchment, but could easily be cleaned. He thanked the Divines, sheathed his weapon, and continued his search for the rest of his gear. A fire was burning low in the hearth, providing some much needed warmth as Kaidan searched the half opened chest. Inside was his armor, cramped in the container but otherwise intact. He shed the prison rags and changed into the steel and ebony, feeling more complete with each piece.

    Supplies were next. There was a healthy stock of poisons and elixirs in an Elven chest. He downed two healing potions before he felt more like himself, and the lashes began to close. The poisons he threw onto the ground, but he took the rolls of bandages and shoved them into his pack. He set his attention to the Thalmor’s writing table next. Coded reports sat in a neat stack on Cyrelian’s desk, next to a soft leather journal. The inside of the book was sparsely written in clean Tamrielic. On instinct, he shoved the leather journal into his pack and burned the coded reports in the fireplace, making sure not a single piece of writing remained in the ash. The desk drawer was locked tight. He broke it open to ensure there were no further reports, nothing that could give away what the Thalmor held here.

    Instead of reports, Kaidan found a dagger among blank parchment and inkwells. The scabbard was pure white with a pale gold sun inlaid in the center. The quillon block was adorned with a pale violet moonstone, same as the stone in the pommel. Kaidan gingerly picked it up and turned it about, shocked at how lightweight it was in his hands. The hilt was warm to the touch, even through the leather and metal of his gauntlets. The blade reflected his face and his surroundings when he unsheathed it; the metal it was made from was unlike anything he’d seen before. Kaidan had never seen anything quite like it. It was a beautiful sight.

    The fact that it was hidden meant it was important, and the Thalmor shouldn’t have it. Kaidan secured the blade to his belt and moved out, his own blade thirsting for blood.

Sounds of a struggle rang out from above, towards what he thought was the main level of the prison. Now fully armored, Kaidan followed Cyrelian’s shouting and the Elf’s snarls, the smell of magicka and a trail of blood to the upper level. His nodachi ready for to take either of them, he crept up the uneven stairs and to the scene of the brawl. The pale Elf was straddling Cyrelian’s waist, one hand to his head and the other frisking his robes. She was clearly struggling to keep her advantage. He was fighting her off as her nails dug into his skin. She found his dagger and, with what Kaidan swore was a laugh, unsheathed it.

She stopped when she saw the blade was not what she expected. It was only for a moment, but it was all Cyrelian needed. His hand alight with magicka, he struck her across the face.

    The Elf howled. Her hands flew to her head and she fell hard to the side, unable to do anything beside the terrible screaming. Cyrelian took advantage of her deposed state and found his feet. Half of his face was scratched nearly clean off. 

    “ _ That’s it _ !” he snarled with another strike of storm magic. He delivered a kick where the lightning struck, where the mace made her bleed, and the Elf fell onto her back. Cyrelian laughed and struck with Paralysis magic, and the howls became gasps for air. “To Oblivion with that damned Valano’s orders, I’ve had enough of you!”

    Kaidan was to them both in an instant, the fury in him reignited. Cyrelian caught his movements and set his lightning upon him, a narrow miss. Kaidan didn’t think, he let his blade move on its own as he lunged, and sliced, and swung at the Thalmor. 

    It was a clean kill, quick. Too quick, he thought as Cyrelian’s head rolled to the floor. His body fell a second after.

    “Son of a bitch had it coming,” Kaidan spat at the corpse and pierced the heart for good measure. For all the Thalmor did to him, his death was over much too soon.

    The Elf’s low whining brought him back. She finally started to move again. Kaidan backed away when she rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up with shaking arms. The fear crept back even as the Elf stumbled and struggled to stand. He gained enough courage to approach for a closer look.

Even for an Elf, she had a strange look about her. Her left half was almost a caricature of Elven features, sharp and narrow with no softness whatsoever. Kaidan thought he would cut himself on her cheekbone. That half was just as colorless as her hair and eyes; the right side, not so much. A deep and dark gash that ran across the right side of her face, starting at the nose and making a crooked path down to the edge of her jaw. Burns twisted around the rift, starting at the bridge of her nose, taking up most of her cheek before tapering off at the neck. It wasn’t the burn of fire magic or Oblivion fire, he knew both well enough, and both would heal. This was something else entirely. It looked old, but somehow the gash was bleeding from where Cyrelian struck.  _ What sort of magic did that bastard use? _ He wanted to ask, but his voice was caught as the Elf watched him. It was unsettling, the way she looked at him.

    “Who.. What are you?” he asked instead. The Elf stared wide-eyed at him, then the blade in his hands, and half-grimaced.  


    “ _ Sigil _ ,” she croaked. She made two steps towards him before collapsing onto the floor. Silence hung in the stale air as Kaidan stood in the empty prison.

    Part of him wanted to collapse to the floor with the Elf, too much had happened. He was free. Mara love him, he was finally free. The Thalmor that made his life hell were dead, and all died suffering. His sword was back where it should be, with him. He touched the hilt to make sure it was really there, and it was. Kaidan breathed in relief, gathered himself, and made for the exit. He was about to open the door to the sweet outside when he glanced back at the pale Elf. She was breathing, but he didn’t like how ragged it was.

    Kaidan weighed his options. He needed to get away, that much was obvious, and the Elf would almost certainly slow him down. He wasn’t even sure that she wouldn’t try and kill him. On the other hand, the chances of anyone benevolent happening upon this place were slim, and the Elf would certainly die without aid. To leave her here was to leave her to die, and in spite of his baser part screaming at him to run, he couldn’t.

Instead, he made back down the uneven stairs and to the Elf. His instinct continued to urge him to the outside, to freedom and safety as he brushed the hair from her face. Even unconscious she seemed in pain, half curled into herself, one hand to the scar like it was instinct. She looked pitiful. A heavy guilt set in his gut, and it only grew when he thought of leaving again.

“I guess you’re coming with me,” he said to her. Kaidan gingerly picked up the Elf and hefted her onto his back. The weight pressed against the still tender lashings, but he kept his composure. A low groan escaped when he finally began moving. “It’s alright, it’s alright..”

    Elf in tow, Kaidan fled the crumbling prison and out into the pouring rain. There was no lightning in the sky and the thunder became distant as he turned north, away from the prison, away from the Thalmor and weeks of their torture, away from the long nightmare.


	6. Tamrielic, Do You Speak It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still on Kaidan. He finally gets some downtime, the weird Elf wakes up, and neither know what to make of the other.

    Kaidan didn’t stop until nightfall, when the rains finally slowed. He found a small cave at the river’s bend surrounded by enough overgrowth to help keep them hidden and high enough from the bank to protect against any sudden flooding. He set the Elf down, collapsed next to her, and fell into a fitful sleep. It was light outside when he woke from a vivid dream he could no longer remember. The cloud cover made it impossible to tell just how long he was out, but the chill in the air told him it was likely morning. The Elf beside him hadn’t moved an inch since last night, but she was still breathing. He wasted no time in cobbling together a fire for the both of them. The wet and coming cold made the roaring campfire he wanted impossible, but he made do. Nearby was a creeping vine of jazbay grapes. He devoured them and ignored the bitterness of the berries. The Elf didn’t rise while Kaidan removed his plate and wrapped what wounds the healing elixirs didn’t close. It was her turn then. He swallowed hard as he propped her up. The Elf didn’t stir as he readied the bandages.

    “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said as he pulled the rags off. They were hanging together by threads, and tore in spite of his best efforts. He kept his eyes away from her front as he wiped the dried blood away, though he couldn’t ignore scars that mapped across her back. Her run in with the Thalmor certainly wasn’t the first. There was a brutal mix of burns and slashes, and a splotch of scar tissue where a spear must’ve run through her. Most were older, some nearly faded, with others maybe only weeks old and finally beginning to heal. He shook himself of the sight and focused on the fresh lashes. None seemed deep, though he didn’t like how the bruised ribs seemed to move as he wrapped her wounds. Broken probably, he thought. The Elf didn’t stir as he finished, and no Thalmor or curious travelers strayed to their shelter. Praise Stendarr for the small mercy. He found a dozen notches on her arms as he tried his hand at breaking the bind, and gave up when he couldn’t find a lock or weak point. The thumb on her freed hand was broken; Kaidan managed to reset the bone and wrap it. For the sake of modesty, he threw a linen shirt on her when he finished the bandaging. It was far too big for the Elf, but it would have to do. It at least hid most of the scars.

    “You’re certainly not a stranger to trouble, are you?” he said. The Elf’s mouth twitched upward in what he thought was a smirk. It was so strange, Kaidan thought as he set her down. She was small, maybe as tall as a Bosmer and just as narrow, but vaguely terrifying even as she slept. He wanted to laugh, but only managed a small and slightly nervous chuckle. He knew he did right, but at what risk? There wasn't a guarantee the Elf wouldn't try and attack. No, that was ridiculous. There was no reason for all the paranoia, he knew this, but old habits.

    A low pang in his stomach snapped Kaidan out of his thoughts. The potions from the day before had finally worn away, and the grapes were largely sugar. It was time for a proper meal. He readied his bow and left the Elf one of the last healing potions, just in case she stirred. With his bow and reclaimed arrows, Kaidan set out and took care to avoid the giant bonfire and marked stones. Last thing he needed was to cross one of the giants that lived there.

 ---

    He picked a bad time to hunt, but managed to get lucky with a small deer. The Elf still slept as he fed the humble fire and skewered the harvested venison over the flames. To keep himself busy as it cooked, he shed his armor and cleaned off the days of captivity in the river. He used the stolen dagger as an impromptu mirror as he shaved the whiskers off his face. By the time he dried off and returned into his armor, the gray took on a dark violet and his meal was finally ready. The Elf didn't wake, but her breathing evened out, slower and deeper now. Part of him wondered if she would ever wake. Another, reckless part of him approached.

    A gentle shake was all that was needed to rouse her, slow as the Elf was to finally open her eyes. She flexed her bandaged hand and grunted in pain, raised it to her eyes to block out the firelight.

    “Oh good, you’re finally awake,” he said. She muttered something and grimaced. Hand still to her eyes, she forced herself to sit up. It wasn’t an easy rise, and it was clear she still felt the sting of Cyrelian’s lash. “Don’t push yourself. The Thalmor did a number on you.” The Elf startled at the sound of his voice and finally turned to see him. She blinked once, twice, again as she took in his face. Confusion turned to realization, then a quiet anger as she felt about her waist. The confusion returned when she looked down at the dark linen and lifted the hem to find Kaidan’s handiwork with the bandages.

    The Elf looked back to him as if he were playing a cruel joke. 

    “I’m not going to hurt you,” he spoke slowly and calmly as she stared him down. Kaidan put up a defensive hand as he approached. She crawled away from him. Magicka flickered in and out from her unbroken hand, and the effort made her nearly double over. “Already tried, couldn’t get anywhere with it. No locks to break on that thing.”

    The Elf didn't listen. She whispered sharp words, what Kaidan thought were curses as she clawed at the iron. All she managed to do was scratch her wrist bloody and break some of her nails.

    _“Kaf!”_ she hissed. That one had to be a swear. Her attention shot to Kaidan as he moved closer and slowly picked up the healing potion by her side.

    “Here. This should at least clear that up..” The Elf only stared coldly at him. “.. Oh for Mara’s sake.” Kaidan uncorked the bottle and took a swig of the elixir. The warmth hit his stomach and soothed the aches he forgot he had. “Not poison, see?” This time the Elf accepted the bottle. She took a slow sip and nearly gagged from the taste. “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

    Apparently it was. The Elf set the bottle down and leaned back against the stone. For someone who slept an entire day, she looked exhausted.

     _“Manis dai,”_ she whispered. Her voice was cracked and sore, barely above a whisper.

    “What was that?” he asked, wanting to move closer but thinking better of it. Even in that sorry state, some part of him was nearly afraid of the Elf, what she could do to him.

    _“Manis dai?”_  She spoke slowly, clearer than before but only just. Kaidan still had a hard time understanding. She waited for an answer, then tried again with more nonsense. _“Mora. Veloth. .. Cyroi? .. Garlihame?_ ” She furrowed her brow when Kaidan shook his head.

    “Not a word of Tamrielic to your name, is there?” he said. The Elf only stared at him with the same puzzled expression.

    “Tamriel?” she didn’t understand the word, or rather the meaning. The Elf motioned to the sky and the pitch black clouds, the smattering of rain, and frowned at him. Whatever he said, or whatever she heard, she wasn’t amused. _“Eila lor.”_

    “I’m going to take that as a no.”

    _“Daila varne.”_ It nearly sounded like an insult. He would’ve thrown some snarky comment of his own, but the effort wasn’t worth the payoff. Kaidan let it be and fed his modest fire a somewhat dry piece of tinder. Other than the crackling of the fire and the rains outside, there wasn’t a sound. It was a tense quiet until the Elf cleared her throat.

    “What is it?” he asked with just a bit of annoyance. She motioned to the etched bind on her wrist, then to him. “Yeah, I was there too. Longer than you were.”

    _“Man es?”_

    “What?”

    She rolled her eyes and motioned again to the red marks. _"M_ _an es. Mora, Cyroi, Veloth, Garlihame,”_ she whispered, slower this time. Kaidan sighed and removed his gauntlets. The Elf’s brow cocked at the sight of his own scarring.

    “I was in the cell above yours. Seems the Thalmor don’t need much evidence to hold a suspect..”

    “Thalmor,” she repeated. Her way of saying it was off. The half frown was back. She muttered something else, but all Kaidan caught was “ _Altmeri._ ” So she at least knew what High Elves were. It was a start. Was she Altmer? No, she didn’t look it. High Elves had gold skin, not ghost-white. Kaidan thought on it more and realized she didn’t look like any of the Elves on Tamriel. Where did that leave, then? He’d been all across the continent and could place just about anyone, he could even tell the more humanoid Khajiit apart from men, but the face across from him stumped him. He wanted to ask, and nearly did when the Elf finally spoke.

    _"S_ _igil,”_ she said, holding her side like it ached. He remembered her saying it before. Was that her name?

    “Uh, I’m Kaidan,” he answered. He tapped his chest. “Kaidan. And you’re.. Sigil?” He heard stranger names. The Elf paused as she tried to understand him, then shook her head.

    _“Sigil.”_ As if the second time would help him. When she realized Kaidan didn’t understand, she rolled her eyes and took one sharp fingernail to the ground. In the looser dirt she drew a vague shape of a sword.

    “You talking about a blade, a weapon?” He picked his blade up. The Elf groaned and motioned to the ground.

    She spoke slowly and then motioned to his sword. _“Varnei megil.”_ And back to her vague drawing. _“Sigil.”_

    “You.. You want to see my sword?” He unsheathed the nodachi and watched for an answer. The Elf slapped her forehead. Kaidan was sure that was meant to be for him, if he were just a bit closer.

     _“Si.”_ And she drew her hands close. _“Gil.”_ She made a stabbing motion into the ground.

    “A.. short blade? Like a-- Oh.” She was asking about a dagger. He glanced over at his pack, then back to the Elf, not sure what to do. He could only guess what she would do if given a weapon, but she hadn’t tried anything yet.

    He already knew what she could do without one, and she looked like she was getting impatient. Kaidan gauged the distance. There was at least ten feet between them. He was closer to the mouth of the cave, and surely he could take on an Elf half his size in a fight. All the same, he said a silent prayer to Talos as he made for his pack and fished out the light blade. “This what you’re looking for?” he asked. Something in her tensed and relaxed at once, but the Elf kept her eye on the dagger. She muttered something and made to get up, but her legs failed her. He had to admit it was a relief to see. “I’m going to put it down, alright?” said Kaidan as he let the blade on the ground and backed away. They stayed in a stare-off until at last the Elf moved for her dagger and secured it to her waist. Her hand went to the hilt, and finally she seemed to relax.

     _“Abav mora,”_ she said. He assumed that was her way of saying “thanks”.

    “You’re welcome.” 

 ---

    Night came again, the heavy cloud cover finally broke, and the stars were faint points of light between the passing clouds. The Elf watched the currents of the river before them with her thumb to the dagger’s pommel stone. She stroked the moonstone back and forth, as if she was praying against a bead. A wind blew outside and with it came a chill from Windhelm, enough for him to feel it even under the armor. The Elf didn’t seem to notice it.

    “Aren’t you cold?” asked Kaidan. She didn’t answer him, and he wasn’t sure why he expected her to. “I’m going to take that as another no.”

    Yet more silence. She didn’t even give him a pointed look, or a frown. No, she was focused entirely on the river. Something about the way she was sitting didn’t seem right, he thought. It was nearly like she was swaying.

    “Hey..” he realized he didn’t know her name. “Elf?” Kaidan tried. Still no answer. “You uh, you alright there?”

    The Elf muttered something. If she meant it for him, she made no effort to repeat herself. She paused, shook her head to herself, muttered again, and fell hard to the side.

    “.. Elf?” Why did he think that would work a second time? He watched for her to move, breathe even. She did neither. “Oh, _come on.._ ” Kaidan moved to her and checked for a pulse. Touching her gave him a shock, one he ignored as he felt for her heartbeat. No luck on the wrists, but he did find a slow and steady beat from her neck. The eyes were wide open but hazy, and she was nearly burning from some sort of fever. It must’ve been the poisons or, gods forbid, an infection. Either way Kaidan couldn’t help, not any more than he did already. He was a bounty hunter, not a priest or healer. He took a moment to regain himself and carried the slight thing back to his camp. He laid her down on the far side of the cave before planning his next move. The river bend and the mountains told him he was close to the border of Whiterun’s hold, but the faint smell of sulfur from the east told him he wasn’t far from Eastmarch. Windhelm was likely the closest city, but to travel there with a strange Elf that didn’t speak Tamrielic didn’t seem the best idea. Riften would be a trek and lacked any decent healers, as much as he preferred the hold’s mountains and forests. He thought of Whiterun then. They were supposed to have a healing temple there, and no doubt would have bounties that needed fulfilling. Travel would be at least three days, though.

_Probably more with the Elf._ He glanced back up. Her head lolled to the side, and he saw her eyes were wide open and hazy. It was an unsettling sight. _Definitely more with the Elf._ Part of him urged to pack up and leave, let her be. The same sinking feeling sat in with him at the thought. She was injured, had no armor, and clearly wasn't down to fight. All it would take was a run in with too many bandits, a miscommunication with the Stormcloaks that patrolled here, or worse, another meeting with the Thalmor.

    Besides all that, he went and used most of his bandages to get her patched up. If nothing else, he could make sure it wasn't a wasted effort. Maybe he could at least make sure she gets well enough to go back home. Wherever that was.

    “Whoever you are, looks like you’ll be stuck with me for a while,” he said to no answer. Her eyes were finally closed, and she seemed a little at peace. There wasn’t a sound from her when Kaidan finally laid down. Sleep found him quickly.


	7. I'm Never Calling You Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elf goes for a walk while she still has her sentience. She tells her stalker bird buddy to fuck off.

The river did not make a sound, for the drought had dried it completely. No, it was an overflowing rapid, roaring with the winds and torrential rainfall. There was no river due to the dam, for they needed the water for the steam gardens and the music that was not. Faint atonals became laughter that was too harsh for, the brass that rang now steel that clattered. The racket made her head hurt. It grew easier to bear witness to the possibilities, in the way one broken leg was easier to bear than two. She waited for a constant, and found it in the heavy cloud above and cool earth below.

_ Another late night, little blackbird? _ A gentle voice was carried by the wind. She rubbed her eyes. The night was dull, starless, or her sight would be this dim for the rest of her days. She supposed it did not matter which was the truth when nothing wished to be true. Slowly she lifted herself and looked out. Her eye wandered from a river that could not make up its mind to the far shore and the unfamiliar trees. She watched as they sprouted from seed, and season by season they grew taller than her, older than her but younger still. Rocks slid from a shrinking mountain and eroded into fine sediment, and she watched the dust scatter as she did. One particle was caught in a whirlpool and sank into the waters, and would not see the sun for millennia. The currents were too strong, and she too weak to wade through. She glanced skyward to find the night in flames, the moons a faint blur behind the haze of ash and embers. The interlopers had been here, and she was too late. No, they never returned for the storms took their fleets. They never returned for they never arrived in the first place. Each were true and false, and the contradictions cast her adrift.

_ No, not again, never again _ . She dragged herself onto solid shore. Her fingers dug into the silt. The fine grains were a focal point, and from there she traced herself, how she came to be  _ here _ . Dim and damp, that she knew, but it did not have the air of underground. The faces were gold but carried a darkness just underneath. They used a lash that stung her skin when she refused their traditional methods. She had fought against worse poisons, worse methods, this she knew. The gold became brass, a mockery of divine skin, a mask to conceal their pallid grey, voices cold and stoic to their final breath. Pink faces then, and voices straining and laughing and weeping as they bled and died. All of this had happened, she knew them all but in different places, not  _ here _ . She blinked and she was gone from them, or they had gone from her. The open air was cool, or was it the beads of sweat across her brow? Her hands ached, as if she was gripping for far too long, and the river finally settled with a lazy, gentle babble. It was a sweet sound in the night air, soothing, and she found her breath and footing once again. She picked up where she left off and kept a hand hovering over the fine silt. It would be a ground, should she wander again.

    The gold became red, as did the pallid and the pink long before them. One had struck her face, and she wished to return the favor. She had done so countless times with blade and claw. She looked down and saw three were gone now, broken away. The asymmetry was a stab of annoyance, and she was compelled to even the rest. They would grow back. They had done so when they were torn away, and they would do so again. In the interim she had her blade. She idly wondered if she would have to use it against the sleeping thing.

    At the very least, he had the decency to remain a constant, even if he was a strange sight. She had never before seen hair so black, or eyes so red. Rounded ears told her he was human but little else reminded her of old invaders, and the crimson markings on his side tugged something in her mind. His was a strong face, one that had known battle, though the skin remained unmarked. There was a tenseness about him even as he slept, as if he were ready to wake and strike without so much of a warning. His thin longsword laid just beside him, close enough for him to grab upon waking, and he stayed in armor as black as his hair. Perhaps he was afraid she would kill him. She huffed a humorless laugh.  _ As if armor ever stopped me. _ She drew her dagger and drank in the song of its unsheathing. She idly spun the blade about. The broken bone and bandages made her clumsy, and the ivory glass fell to the earth.

    She should not have declawed herself so soon. Foolish thing. She spat on the ground lest she spit on herself and carefully put her blade away, and prayed her Prince would forgive her coarseness. The man in black armor did not stir. She would approach for a closer look, draw a hint of blood to see if he was truly of Mora, but the long ebony sword beside him kept her away. Her right arm lacked the strength and speed of her left, and she would be cut in half. She sorely missed her spear.

    It occurred that he did not kill her, or even try to. She raised the linen she did not wear before and examined the wrappings, the brace and bandage on her hand. Who else would it have been? The ones who held her down were dead, she tore both in different ways.  _ There were three, however. _ She glanced at the longsword again, and to see at all meant her eyes stayed in her head. Holding her breath, she crept to the sleeping man, to his sword, and slowly unsheathed it.

    That was the one, she realized. Its sound rang through the damp and dim, and cut through the searing white across her face. The metal was as dark as his armor, the markings across the width the same that ran down his cheek, the hilt corded, well used and well loved. It was a strange sight, one whose bite she did not know, but she knew its work. It killed the last of the dark-eyed Altmer, the one who would have killed her. He trembled when he saw her, but not in rage or terror. He was an enigma, and her head was aching too much for riddles. She sheathed the blade, slid away from where he lay, cleared the cloud in her mind to better think.

He was not in service of her Prince, she would know him if he were. He was no runaway slave of Cyrod, for he bore not the brand. The markings were of the flying beasts, but he did not know their tongue or their alphabet. If he was acting in the service of the Undermer, he would have blinded her. If he were allied with round-eared pagans, her fingers would have been taken as trophies. Who did that leave? Her head thrummed as she tried to think. Plenty wished her dead, but who would want her alive, and free to move? Who would want her with eyes to see and with hands that could kill? Who would tend the wounds and leave her armed?

What kind of an absolute fool would leave her  _ alive _ ?

_ _

Thunder roared in her head and bright lightning flashed in her eyes. Deaf and blinded, she rested her head against the stone and took a deep breath. Sound and silver light returned in small ripples, and it was years before she properly reformed. She was weak, still so weak, but she did not break apart. Sunlight that was not warmed her blood at the thought, only to chill when she realized the blackbird had returned. It held the same golden scroll in its talons, gleaming like its eyes.

    She took a steadying breath, and after millennia she willed herself to speak.

“Who are you?” she whispered to form before her. Words were still a labor, her throat was so tight and sore. “Who are you?”

The wind carried a melody that was sweet and sad.

_ _

That was not right. She had a mother, one with a face and voice as calm as a winter morning. She healed, and taught, and hummed in a garden of fragrant herbs. She passed down the gift in her blood, through her womb and her lessons. Hers were arms that went cold as she held, and healed, and wept her final moments when nothing could be done.

“I am not your daughter,” she answered with a voice that quavered in the air. “You must be confused.” The blackbird closed its gold eyes, and red dropped onto the silt. Glowlilies sprouted from the dropped tear, bloomed its radiance, and withered into nothing. With an unmoving beak it sang and spread its wings, and without once beating against the wind it flew.

_ _

    She willed her legs to push up from the ground, to follow the wings and the song. They were slow to move, unused to the present and the pressures of being  _ here _ , and most of her ached from days past. She walked on through grass and dust, all familiar and not. She wandered through overgrowth that turned to hedges, manicured rose bushes that wilted and scattered, but none of it was  _ here _ . A giant bonfire burned bright white to signal the giant-wives, all in vain for they had gone away. When she strayed to bring them a mate, the world about twisted until she was pulled back.

_      _

The giant-wives remained gone, and the fires became a warm orange glow in the night. The mourning men slept and dreamed as she passed through.

    She finally stopped at the shore of a shallow lake. Cool water washed her hands and hair clean before she was called again. Sound traveled through the maybes, but not shouts, she thought. She found the blackbird waiting across the way. It rested its wings atop a statue, all blur and uncertainty until she ventured closer. Dread sank into her when she saw the mantle in stone, his boot to her neck. This place did not exist before, not like this. She was here before and gone again, when the lake was a mere puddle and the outcrop harsher in its outline. It did not dance like the maybes, but an absolute, a certainty. It was her ruin, and the stranger that slept, and the solid void that cast no shadow.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

_ _

“Fear is but an illusion,” she recalled. She approached the shrine slowly and took in the sight of the traitor god. He had a cruel face, she thought, the frown of a sinner and the brow of a traitor. Perhaps it was only fitting that he took the blind mantle, and forced the serpent into its coil. Lorkhan’s spawn did not feel love, she remembered from an old lesson. It was why they were so destructive, so bitter and jealous. To know something was missing, and it was the one thing to truly make them belong, truly make them perfection, she supposed it would drive anyone to depravity. She very nearly pitied it.

_ _

Upon the boot was the void black bird, though it did not fly down. Beneath its talons the oxidized copper became rusted iron, crumbling stone, gaudy gold. It remained an absolute among the maybes. She bit her lip and focused, reached for the needed scroll clutched tightly in its hold. She needed its words, to command them, bring her back,  _ bring him back. _

Instead of the burning brightness, she found linen and cool metal clinking underneath. She blinked and found that once again the blackbird was gone. In its stead, small sack lay at the base. She fumbled with the knot of the drawstring and pulled it from the cloth, though she did not know why. The small sack opened, and from its mouth poured a small collection of coins. She picked one up and examined it.

“Strange, so strange..” She thought it currency, garish though it was. It was not theirs, they did not have dealings in coin or currency. It was not of Cyrod or the heretics below but something foreign. One side bore a human man’s head in profile, the other what she assumed a winged serpent. She flipped back to the human, her focus shifting between the face on the coin and the face that gazed down at her, the serpent in gold and the serpent in stone, it mattered little for they were one in the same.

_ _

No, that could not be. She had a brother, a giant in her memory even as she had grown. She knew his name, but he never heard hers. He had a strong voice and a spear that whistled through the air, and the spear was all that returned home. He was summoned as the clouds grew dark, and perished on the broken shores.

She sized up the false brother before her and shook her head. Faenor was not so tall, not even then, and the stone face was too fat to be her kin. She tossed the coin into the lake and broke the calm on the water. The sky changed with each expanding ripple, the dark yielded to gentle starshine, the diamond tears fading to clear blue that then gave way to a storm of fire, black wings blotting out the sun. The small waves subsided and took the maybes away from her. The cool stone of the mantle was against her back, and now the stars above were covered by impending rain and storm. She pushed herself up, and pain shot through her body as her muscles tightened. She cursed her forgetfulness, the absolute that she was broken, weakened.

_      _

“A blessing for one is a curse for another,” she whispered. She paused and wondered if she even knew, truly. The smell of incense wafted through the air, and she knew the sage and diamond willow. The false brother was gone, and a humble sanctuary stood in his place. The white stone and censers shattered when she reached out to touch it, and again she only found the cold stone of a traitor.

_ _

Her chest ached. She tightened the lacing on the linen as if it would soothe the dull throb, as if a thread could stop steel.

“You say such things, yet will not tell why.” She met the gaze of the man above her and frowned. “Under what condition was this.. Gift given?”

_ _

Such was always demanded. She had given her service happily, not for honor or glory for such things were ever beyond her grasp. No, it was only ever for the Prince,  _ her _ Prince, and the radiance of his affection. It was the sun’s warmth to envision him, but the sun was dead. The ache in her sharpened like metal to a grindstone, tightened and coiled into her heart as it was pierced, pierced like his own, and there it stayed as corporal examiners  _ tsked _ and  _ hmmed _ at her insubordination. It was agreed, they said, and she would deliver on her end of the bargain. She would serve, they said.

    “There is only one to serve, and it is not you,” she answered to the void as she did to the soft bodies in their brass. There was no sharp reprimand at her refusal, no tearing of skin or deconvergence through fifteen tones. There was only silence and the possibilities that did not stray so much anymore. She considered it a victory, a piece of herself now reclaimed. Most of her was still missing, but her loyalty would not be so easily lost.

_ To serve me is to serve us all, little blackbird _ . She stood alone in his quarters and covered her face with her hands, for it had opened recently and would not stop bleeding. An apology slipped out between tight lips and he laughed gently. Orris and everbloom scented the air, and she held it in her as long as she dared. When her body forced another breath she was gone from his presence, his love, and the void beast stared at her through its guise. She caught a glimpse of scale and sharp talons before it morphed into feather and beak.

“You deceive,” she said.

_ _

“Then you would know who the promise was for. Leave me.” She gripped the hilt and turned against the false form. It bore the black wings of his messenger, but was not his, and so she was free to ignore. It wished her to travel north, east, then south, and so she traveled west. Past the shallow lake and forlorn giants’ home with gentle orange fires she walked, back to the river that was dry then flooded, gone altogether and rerouted. She blinked and found it had returned to a lazy current. The shelter remained, and to some disappointment the human still inside. She had a half mind to leave him, make for the north. The smell of rain reached her nose, and a wave of weariness came over her. _To travel north would be death_. She groaned and slumped on the farthest wall. The sleeping thing did not stir, her headache ebbed away, and the last of her energy left her. She watched the outside, as was habit. The world was quiet here, she thought. She carefully drew her blade and gazed at the pommel stone.  The oath on her lips was only half-remembered, but she recited all she could. She held the blade close to her chest, and the edge would not cut her. He would never hurt her, he would have rather died.

    “Yours, only ever yours,” she whispered into the hilt. “It would take the crumbling of mountains and the draining of seas to truly take you.”

_     Yet I have seen both, over and over. _ She looked out at the river to find it was a dry bed once again. The aching returned, her tireless self had become worn, and respite was too far for her to reach.


	8. Elenwen Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember Rulan and Valano? They finally made it to the Embassy.

Rulan waited outside the Emissary’s solar, back straight and arms folded neatly behind his back. The other Thalmor agents and informants glanced his way from time to time, but didn’t dare make small talk; no one ever went to see the First Emissary for accolades, after all. He kept his form stiff if only to keep from falling to his knees. Behind the door he could hear Valano and the Emissary talk. Their voices were hushed and muffled behind the heavy oaken door, but even through the walls and the wood, she sounded threatening. Rulan stiffened his legs to keep them from faltering.

The two stopped talking. Unbearable silence followed, and Rulan sorely wished he had another Invisibility scroll. His first mission, his first time away from Summerset, and everything had all gone to Oblivion. His thoughts raced by in his head. Ocanim was a seasoned Talos hunter, and he was killed. Valano was a mage, a longtime Thalmor agent and followed procedure to perfection, they would surely keep him. Rulan was only a recruit, a novice, and he didn’t even  _ do _ anything. He would surely catch the blame for Ocanim’s death, return to Summerset without any of the glory everyone thought he would bring. Instead he would be dishonorably discharged at the very start of his career with the Aldmeri Dominion, stripped and shamed before his thirtieth summer. He’d be lucky to get a job as a fisherman at this rate, if he didn’t die of shame first.

    It was the end of the world.

The door opened. Valano stood tall before him. Rulan’s heart jumped to his throat.

“Go on in, Rulan,” he said with that unwavering smile. The young scout nodded dutifully and marched inside to meet his fate.

 

Emissary Elenwen was seated at her desk, arms folded neatly across the dark wood. She was suspiciously calm and collected. Rulan glanced around and saw there was only a single inkwell and a small stack of parchment before her. Slowly and deliberately the Emissary readied a quill by sharpening the tip with her magic. Her nails were sharp and painted black as her robes.

“Please have a seat,” she said, her voice cool and dark as the wine cellar back home. Rulan bowed and slowly pulled the seat from her desk. It screeched across the floor despite his best efforts.

It truly was the end of the world.

“My apologies, Emissary,” he stammered as he finally took his place. He searched for something to focus on, anything but her. No, that would be rude.

He looked her in the eye, and was immediately filled with discomfort. He couldn’t look away, not now. In the end, Rulan focused on her nose, her straight and narrow nose.

Elenwen smiled coldly.

“Valano tells me you were his assigned scout, is that right?”

“Yes, Madam Emissary.” He didn’t like how she said he  _ was _ a scout. Rulan focused on the small pores. There wasn’t a single blemish on her. Rulan thought she was beautiful, only to immediately feel ashamed. Elenwen was more accomplished than he would ever be, and all he could think of was her appearance.

“So you can corroborate his record, I assume.”

“Referring to the.. The discovery at the Weynon Stones?” Rulan’s blood grew cold on what it could mean. Ocanim’s death gurgle kept playing in his mind and nearly made him sick. Elenwen nodded and readied her quill. “Yes, Madam Emissary.”

“I would like to hear your account, then. Please, spare no detail.”

Rulan told her everything he knew. He told her of their arrival at the Talos shrine, how the Elf was nearly invisible in the snow, Ocanim’s death and her capture. He told her about the dagger and Valano’s examining it, how she managed to injure him. When Elenwen asked if he got a look at the Elf’s face, he told the truth.

“She was bagged from when Valano captured her, all the way to.. To Eastmarch.” He lost his resolve. Elenwen paused for only a second, and the parchment drank a splotch of black ink. “Is, is it true? All of them?”

“You’ve heard right, I’m afraid. It appears you and Valano are the only two who have seen this.. this Elf and lived. Rulan, was it?” He nodded his affirmation. “Tell me, have you ever visited our Museum of History, in Alinor?” Elenwen set her quill aside and stared into him. Rulan felt as if he would shatter if he dared lie.

“I never even left Auridon before my dispatch to Skyrim, Madam Emissary.” Rulan felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “My father was from Alinor though, perhaps he’d been--”

“That’s quite enough, Rulan,” the Emissary said, and Rulan fell silent with shame. “When you return to Summerset, you really should visit. The Snow Elf wing in particular is quite the sight.” Elenwen allowed herself a small smile at the thought of home. The smile vanished with her next question. “How familiar are you with the history of this particular province of Tamriel?”

“I only know the surface level, Madam Emissary. That the, the Nords here arrived from Altmora and without provocation, slaughtered the Elves that offered them sanctuary. That’s, that’s it.” Rulan sorely wished he would stop stammering so much. Elenwen nodded and placed her written record aside, allowing it dry as she began a draft on a fresh piece. “History is not my strong suit, I’m afraid.”

“That’s quite alright. I’m afraid all worthwhile history here died with our ancient cousins,” she said as she wrote. “I have one last question, and please, don’t be ashamed to say you don’t know. Do you know what you and what remains of your team discovered at the Weynon Stones?”

“An.. Elf?” Rulan immediately regretted answering at all. Elenwen chuckled.

“You’re not incorrect.” She set her quill aside and stared straight into Rulan. “Could you describe that.. Elf, in greater detail? I realize you didn’t see the face, but perhaps there were other defining characteristics.”

“Of.. Of course, Madam Emissary. It-- she, I mean. I mean, I think it was a she, it was hard to tell, and everything went so fast..”

“Take your time.” Rulan couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t recording his account. His stomach sank at what all it could mean.

“She was, she was pale. Very pale. Blended right in with the snow until she moved. I didn’t get a look at the face, but Valano, he frowned when he got a closer look. As if something was wrong with her.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“Um.. That there was a scar, or a disfigurement maybe?” Elenwen seemed to accept his answer. He allowed himself to breathe a little easier. “Either way, Valano, he found out that she came from a ruin. Dwemer ruin, I mean. It was destroyed, I mean completely. Frozen over, but I don’t think there were any storms that would..” The Emissary’s face dropped just so. “Do that.. Kind of damage.”

The silence was palpable in the solar. Seconds crawled by like years, and a hundred years passed when Elenwen finally nodded. She finished her writing and set the parchment aside to dry.

“In the other room, you will find a place to change out of your armor. Do so, then return to me.” Without another word, Elenwen rose from behind her desk and left Rulan alone in the office. He held back tears and made for the small changing room.

 

Rulan would have been ready sooner, but he dared not to face the Emissary and the escorting team with wet eyes. When he finally emerged in his plainclothes, Elenwen was back at her desk. A bottle of Altmeri Alto and three glasses were neatly placed next to her report. Valano sat across the way and was engaging her in a light conversation. His Thalmor robes were gone, dressed instead like a common mage. His smile was less practiced as he spoke to the Emissary, and he even managed to get a laugh from her. Valano was the first to notice the novice scout and beckoned him over.

“You’re just in time, Rulan. We were just talking about you,” he said with that easy smile. “Tell me, have you puzzled out what we discovered instead of heretics?”

Rulan took his seat beside his senior officer. He sat on his hands and swallowed hard. “I’m uh, I’m afraid not.” He expected them to laugh as they did earlier, or chide him for his ignorance. Instead they seemed to understand. Both merely nodded, first to him and then to each other. They smiled at each other, as if there was a secret between them that he was left out on.

“Well, it certainly isn’t every day you see a piece of history,” said Valano. “I wouldn’t have believed it for myself if I wasn’t a historian, and certainly if I didn’t see its face. Or rather, what remained..”

“Now Valano, don’t be so cruel!” Elenwen was smiling, and her chiding didn’t seem to be sincere. “Rulan, you mentioned earlier that you knew little of this land. Do you know which of our cousins lived here before their tragic disappearance?”

This one he knew, and was eager to answer. “The Dwemer, Madam Emissary! And the.. Well, we still call them Falmer back in Lillandril, but I don’t think they use that word anymore. At least not here.. Oh.” The answer came to him like a thrown brick. His eyes went wide and his jaw went slack as he stared first at the Emissary, then at Valano. “You don’t.. You don’t think that was..”

“I do,” said Valano. The smile on his face was wide, his gold eyes bright. Rulan had never seen him look so excited, or quite so young.

“The only question is how,” Elenwen stepped in. “Our own investigations yielded nothing in the way of the Snow Elves. No artifacts, not even a trace of their old cities, and yet one just appears. How?”

“That part I am still puzzling out myself, but I feel that Blackreach holds the answer.” Valano tucked his hair behind his ear as he talked. “That is where it appeared to come from, after all. Elenwen, have we men to spare for an expedition?”

“I’ve made a request, but the dragon attack at Helgen has consumed most of our leadership’s attention. We can afford a small investigative team, but nothing more until you can provide a full confirmation of its identity, or the asset itself. For all intents and purposes, I’m afraid the two of you will be operating alone in this new mission. Can you handle that?” She looked over to Rulan.

“He’s more than able, dear Elenwen.” Valano came to his rescue. “After all, he succeeded where Ocanim and Cyrelian failed.” Elenwen chuckled at this and rolled her report into a neat scroll. With a small Flame, she dripped grey wax onto the edge and sealed it with the Aldmeri Eagle. Rulan had never seen grey used as a seal. Gold and black were for officials and red for dispatch orders, but grey was new.

“I’ll be notifying the Aldmeri High Council, of course. I am sure they will take a more vested interest after you’ve acquired our asset.” She cast her magic over the report and, with a snap of her fingers, it glowed a faint grey and disappeared into the air. Something pulled at Rulan’s stomach when the scroll vanished. Valano gave him a reassuring glance before Elenwen cleared her throat to speak. “You can understand that this is a delicate situation. We have already seen what it is capable of when placed under duress, and I highly doubt you will have the advantage of surprise. It’s already claimed Ocanim and that brute Cyrelian, as well as his guardsmen.”

“You needn’t fear a mistake from me, Elenwen. But what of our other active agents?”

“I shall send an official stand down if they happen upon your target. They are also to notify you immediately. If it presents an active threat to our higher operations they may intervene, but under no circumstances are they to use lethal force. Will it know either of you?”

“I used a mind wipe shortly before we left it in Cyrelian’s care. It won’t know our faces or our voices.”

“Um, if I may?” Rulan asked. His voice seemed so small compared to the Emissary’s and Valano's. “If I recall correctly, there was another prisoner where we had the.. Asset. Do we know what happened to him? If he’s alive, he could be a threat, or..”

“The suspected Blades agent was not found at the site of our incident. What’s more, his possessions and a number of reports are missing. We can safely assume he fled during the chaos. I have already posted a hunt order for him.” Elenwen rubbed the bridge of her nose. “It seemed Cyrelian was right about  _ one _ thing, at least. The Blades appear to still be active, though why he didn’t simply kill him is beyond me.”

“Mistakes happen, even among our ranks,” said Valano. “We’re not perfect. Not yet, anyway.” This made Elenwen laugh instead of chuckle. She had a lovely laugh, Rulan thought, light as white grape wine. “Are weekly reports satisfactory?”

“Yes, through the usual methods. Once you find it, you have my authorization to use the Grey Channel. Be open to receive anything with my signature, or from the other field agents. We’ll be erring on the side of discretion, as I’m sure you understand.”

Rulan kept his mouth shut. They couldn’t be expected to travel Skyrim without so much as a sword, but he wasn’t about to question Elenwen again.

“Of course, Elenwen. And of our protection? Armor, provisions?” Valano asked with a subtle wink at Rulan. It was as if he could read minds.

“We only have our standard armor here. It would attract far too much attention. However, I will allocate some minor funding for a fitting and suit. I would advise you go to Solitude. I recommend leaving tomorrow. The journey must have been difficult.” There was something like humor in her voice, but Rulan wasn’t sure why. Valano chuckled and nodded as uncorked the Altmeri Alto.

“Of course. But today, we shall allow ourselves a small celebration,” he said. The first pour naturally went to Elenwen, the second to Rulan. Valano raised his glass for a toast. “To the Dominion!”

“To the Dominion!” Rulan and Elenwen joined him, and the three took their first drink in unison. It was a taste of home, and for a moment he could hear the rushing of the waves against the sunny shore.  



	9. Glad That's Over With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the human. He's looking forward to never having to piggy back an injured and possibly dangerous Elf across Skyrim ever again. No siree. Never again. Nope.

    Whiterun was the safest choice, in spite of all of Kaidan’s reservations. The temple there had decent healers, and so far as he knew it was still a neutral zone in Skyrim. No Stormcloaks would try and hang an Elf that didn’t speak Tamrielic, and there would be no Imperial bootlickers to sell them out. It was just a matter of getting there. The Elf slept a lot, which made travel difficult. The near constant drizzle of rain further impeded them, and the restless dreams he’d been having since the escape didn’t help matters. He felt fuzzy and distant in the mornings, and his senses only seemed to wake when high noon hit. The one blessing he had was that so far, he hadn’t run into any trouble. The way he took was silent. Almost too silent.

    On the third day she stirred, slowly but surely. A sudden wave of weariness came over Kaidan as the Elf woke up, and he set her down to make camp. The first waking hours were spent in that same daze as before, groaning as if nursing a hangover. Once or twice she made to get up, the air around her swaying as she did, but her strength was gone. Kaidan once reached out to shake her shoulder, but was overcome with a strange heaviness in his arms and a strong sense of vertigo. By the time he recovered from it the Elf was watching him with narrow eyes.

    “Still not going to hurt you,” said Kaidan as he roasted a caught rabbit over the fire. The Elf frowned at the fire and extended a hand to the warmth. Her veins popped as she strained to summon her magic, the bind on her wrist glowed a sickly blue, and all that manifested was a faint spark and puff of wind.

_     “Kaf,” _ she spat. Kaidan couldn’t help but laugh a little at her effort.

    “Pretty sure that’s going to hold, no matter what you try,” he said. The Elf didn’t share his amusement and stared death into him, coiled tight like a sep adder about to strike. As much as he wanted to say he could take her on if it came it blows, he knew better than to try it. The dead Thalmor flashed in his mind, his open throat and the pool of blood, the empty screaming face that was only half there. His eye wandered to her hands and was relieved to see her nails were cut short sometime between then and now. The rest of the night was a quiet standoff between them. He offered his rabbit and a drag from the waterskin, but both were refused under no uncertain terms. Instead she watched him as he tended to his sword, fed the fire, readied a relatively warm spot for sleep. He would be lying if he said it wasn’t unsettling.

    “You uh, get some sleep,” he said before turning in. His dreams were vivid again, but he couldn’t recall one when he woke. The Elf was out of it again, but the footwraps on her were gone. The small cuts told him she finally managed to move about, but the grass was undisturbed.  


 

    That became the new norm for the coming days. The Elf would stir sometime in the evening, Kaidan would set her down when his arms became too heavy and his head too light to continue, and she would groan and tremble until nightfall when she finally woke up. The rest of the night was a quiet understanding between them: Kaidan wouldn’t make a move towards her, and she would watch him as if he was going to try anyway. Gone was the Elf that butchered the Thalmor, that much was sure. Kaidan should have been thankful, he knew that, but it was more frustrating than anything. The Elf was becoming a heavy burden; his arms began to ache from the strain of carrying her.

They had crossed into Whiterun proper when the fits came to a head. It was in the dark of the early dawn when the Elf woke him up with a terrible cry, like she was a rabbit caught in a bear trap. Kaidan grabbed his sword before his eyes were open. It was only her when he got his bearings. No bandits, no bears or trolls, not even a wolf. It was just the Elf, staring out at the plains of Whiterun.

“Don’t tell me you have a bounty here,” said Kaidan wearily. The Elf sat there frozen, hands clamped tightly to her mouth. From the cracks between he could hear her babbling, stopping only to take a gasping breath. “What’s the matter--”

Without warning she scrambled to her feet, made for the east but stopped dead in her tracks. She turned north, then south, only for the same stopping panic to hit her. It wasn’t the usual fit, not this time. She was aware, afraid, but of what Kaidan has no idea. He saw nothing but the plains and distant mountains, the far off ruins of Valtheim in the east and the first lights of Whiterun in the west. The Elf caught sight of those distant firelights, the crumbling walls of the city, and finally went quiet. Her arms dropped, shoulders slacked, and all Kaidan could hear was a soft whine and something else, something he couldn’t quite place.

Then she screamed. It wasn’t the wail of a woman or roar of a man, but the crash of thunder. Soundless white flashed, and without any warning she was gone into the trembling space. Where she was the air writhed like a snake, louder than an explosion despite not making a sound. It hurt to look at it, and even when he didn’t Kaidan had to fight the overpowering dread that threatened to drain his strength. His hand went to his sword like it would protect him against whatever had taken the Elf. He was choked by the sudden thick smell of magic, no, a storm, as the world distorted. The pre-dawn was broad daylight, then a night that rained fire. Static shocked his skin, thunder roared in his ears but not in the sky, the world around him wasn’t anymore, black wings flashed--

And the Elf landed hard on the ground as if spit out. The rift, Kaidan didn’t know what else to call it, began to calm down, but the storm smell lingered and for an instant  _ something _ stared out at her It was just a flash, but Kaidan knew what he saw. It was an eye, gold and slit like a snake’s. The Elf shook as she made herself get up, spitting and snarling as the air finally calmed. She swiped out, only to double over and become sick in the grass. Kaidan very nearly joined her; he felt wrong, like a hangover without the drink, or someone switched the ground and sky and left him in a spinning freefall. He ended up sitting down on the grass to regain himself, staring out at the eastern horizon like a fool who lost his final septim.  _ What was that? What in Oblivion was that? _ Kaidan couldn’t ask her, Divines knew she wouldn’t know what he was going on about, but who else could he ask? He’d been all across Tamriel, from the ashlands of Morrowind to the searing sands of Hammerfell, but he’d never in his life seen anything like  _ that _ . He was terrified. He was ashamed to be terrified. He was a man fully grown, and by the Nine he was nearly crying.

“Focus, focus gods dammit..” he muttered. It was just magic, he decided. That was it, just a spell, nevermind the magicka draining bind on her wrist, nevermind that it didn’t look like a teleportation spell or even a simple Invisibility, it was magic. Failed magic. If only to keep going, Kaidan told himself that. In the meantime, he would finish what he started, he would get some gods damned help for this bloody Elf that saved his life. Repaying a debt, that’s what it was. The Elf’s skin seemed to hum as Kaidan picked her up, and he swore she was lighter than ever. She stirred later in the day, but she didn’t fight as Kaidan carried her. Whatever happened in the early morning had her drained. They nearly managed the river bend before night fell and Kaidan made camp. The storm smell finally subsided, and he’d never been more glad for it. His hands were shaking as he struck the flint against kindling, and the brace of rabbits that he hunted nearly got away from his arrows.

Kaidan gave the Elf a wide berth for most of the evening, ashamed as he was to be afraid of her. She didn’t do much of anything since her outburst, just watched the night sky with wide, almost empty eyes. What happened earlier then? Was she possessed by a Daedra? No, he’d seen those particular demons before, and they always liked to mark their claims. What if she tried it again? In a city, nonetheless.  _ What if someone got hurt? _ He thought.

_ No, don’t borrow trouble, _ he thought. Whatever it was, the healers would know and set it right. Kaidan made himself look to the city of Whiterun and its distant firelights. They seemed to be making decent time in spite of the Elf’s best efforts. Rains and rough terrain be damned, they were safely in Whiterun Hold, and it “only” took five days. While the two rabbits roasted over his modest fire, Kaidan looked westward and kept his calm. It would take one good day of travel, if he was lucky. After her madness at Valtheim, he was ready to leave the Elf. One day left, and he could be on his way. In the meantime, he needed to keep his strength up, they both did. He offered one of the finished rabbits to the Elf, but she didn’t even acknowledge him.

“You need to eat,” he said. The Elf was noticeably somehow paler and more drawn since he started out, but the damned thing still just stared out at nothing. She hadn’t said a word since the incident, which normally wouldn’t bother him. She was less for words than she was for stamina, and the language barrier certainly didn’t help matters, but the silence this night was different. It seemed heavier somehow, as if he was in the aftermath of some terrible revelation. He tried asking her what was going on, using as plain language as possible, but no such luck. It was a fool’s errand to even try.

Eventually the Elf dropped. He thought her dead until he saw the gentle rise and fall of her back.  _ No fits tonight then. Small blessings. _ Kaidan found a soft path of grass and laid down, though he didn’t feel tired. The sky above finally cleared some, and he could faintly see the stars behind the thin cloud cover. So long as the skies kept clear, and so long as there weren’t any more fits from the Elf, he would be in Whiterun by tomorrow afternoon. No more dragging a body, no more standoffs or battles of will, no more freakish magic or tricks of the mind. That’s what it was, he decided. That staring eye was just a trick, thanks to his head being out of sorts from the past few weeks. It would be better after a decent rest and some solitude. Sleep finally found him, but it was fitful.

 

    In the morning he woke to find the Elf dead to the world. Kaidan gently nudged her shoulder and sighed when she didn’t stir. What pulse she had under her throat was weak, but as even as it had ever been. There was no sound when he hefted her onto his back, and not once did she stir as Kaian carried her through the final leg of the journey. It took most of the day to reach the city, thankfully without any hungry wolves or bloodthirsty bandits to slow him down. The extra weight on his back did prove the challenge, and his arms were lead when he crossed the moat. Kaidan was ready to drop her when he approached the gate to Whiterun’s capital. The sun was hanging in the west when the guard stopped Kaidan and his passenger at the grand oak door.

“City’s closed to visitors, traveler,” he said. “Whatever your business is, you’ll have to go elsewhere.. By the Eight.” He finally took notice of the Elf on Kaidan’s back. “Is.. Is she dead?”

“She will be if she doesn’t get a healer. Going elsewhere isn’t an option.” Kaidan shifted the Elf about. The guard grimaced at the sight of the scar on her face, the sweat on her brow and the uncanny paleness of her skin.

“We’ll make an exception, but just this once,” he said. He called for the keeper to unlock the way. “Go on in.” The guard muttered something about how that freakish Elf better not be carrying a plague as Kaidan crossed the threshold into the city of Whiterun.

Even this late in the day, the shops were opened and ready for some final trades. A Nord wearing the armor of an Imperial soldier was bartering with a woman blacksmith over steel for the army, neither party paying Kaidan and the Elf any mind as he moved through the street. Some residents and traders did look his way, and one young woman smiled at him before noticing the load on his back. A young girl and her mother nearly spilled a shipment of apples at their market stand when the Elf violently twitched. She moaned in pain once again as Kaidan walked past Jorrvaskr and the clamoring that came from within.

“Nearly there,” he said, more to himself than her. “Nearly there.” Kaidan let himself into the Temple of Kynareth and dropped the Elf on the nearest altar. His arms dropped to his sides like lead, glad to be gone of the burden. He found an acolyte and motioned to the Elf he dropped off.

“Oh, dear..” the Redguard woman moved to the Elf and cast her healing magic over the body. She frowned when she reached the face, and it only deepened when she cancelled the spell. She looked to Kaidan and asked, “From what battle did you two come from?”

“I uh, found her. Abandoned fort, a few days east of here,” said Kaidan. Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

“I see..” She obviously didn’t buy the story. “The two of you have names?”

“She never told me what her name was.”

“Mute?”

“Doesn’t speak the language. Prone to strange fits, I.. I think it’s some kind of sickness,” he offered unhelpfully. Kaidan glanced down at the Elf. The bruises were faded, but the dark burns and gash remained to spite the healer’s magic. “Wasn’t sure where else to bring her.”

“Ahlam, by the way. There’s no infection or sickness I can find. Or.. anything, really. How long has she been like this?” The healer looked over the Elf and rubbed her temples when Kaian shook his head. “Best guess, then.”

“Around.. I guess a week ago. That’s when I found her.”

“I see..” Ahlam pushed a stray hair away from her face. “I’ll have Danica give her a second look, when she comes back from the Gildergreen. Maybe she knows a trick to something as stubborn as..” She trailed off and gave the Elf’s scar another try. The healing magic spread about the burns but did not seep into them. “I hate to bring it up, but there’s the issue of payment.”

“Of course.” It came out sharper than he meant. Ahlam gave him a pointed stare. Kaidan mumbled an apology and reached for his meager coinpurse. “Didn’t mean to offend.”

“It’s fine. I don’t like it either, but supplies have become scarce.” She rubbed the space between her eyes. “Divines damn this war.”

“Bloody idiocy, it is. Haven’t got much, but here.” He set his septims down on the altar beside the Elf. Ahlam nodded, more to herself than to him.

“Kynareth smile on you. Most wouldn’t go this far for a stranger.” Ahlam gave him a warm smile. “Most of the wounds are treatable, but you mentioned illness.. We’ll be erring on the side of caution, so she’ll be with us for a couple of days. Will you be here for long?”

“Was just leaving. Got other business to attend to.” Getting his life back on track, for one. Ahlam glanced at the frosted glass window. The sunset outside bathed the room in a gentle orange glow.

“It’s awful late for anyone to be traveling. There should be a room at the Bannered Mare. Tell Hulda I sent you and she’ll cut you a deal.”

“Oh, that’s not--”

“I insist.” The tone in the Redguard’s voice was sneaking up on suggestive. The wedding band on her finger eased some of his suspicions, but he still made up his mind. He wished the best for them, he wasn’t heartless after all, but Kaidan wanted nothing more than to get out of Whiterun and go back to his old life. He promised himself to never play bodyguard ever again.

“I’ll consider it,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. He thought of it, and decided it’d be better to leave. It was enough to make the Redguard smile at him.

“Kynareth smile on you. Check back tomorrow, Danica normally makes the rounds first thing in the morning.”

“Much appreciated.” Kaidan was already heading out the door and into the emptying streets of the city. The sun was already past setting, and the early night began to creep in. With it came a chill in the air, one that bit him more than it should. He looked at the Bannered Mare, and could smell something roasting from the inn. If he had any gold left, Kaidan would have taken up there for the night. He took it as a sign that he should keep going, and so he did.

    The streets were empty save for a beggar by the inn, and the guards didn’t question him as he left. He took a breath of fresh air and finally relaxed. At long last, he was alone to do as he wished. At long last, he could get back to the reason why he returned to Skyrim. It was a welcome change of pace given the past few weeks, and whatever guilt he had for leaving the Elf was easy enough to quiet after the first mile without the burden on his back. His part in all this finally finished, Kaidan made for the south and stopped only when his legs wouldn’t carry him any further. For the first night in weeks he slept soundly, and straight through any damned cracks of thunder.


	10. Oh, Shit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elf wakes up in Skyrim's second oldest city, the HQ of the Companions, and the home of a giant ass statue of Ysgramor.  
> What could possibly go wrong?

Lavender and chamomile drifted through the air, and a chime outside danced in a light breeze. Her head rested against a tight linen roll, and she could breathe easy, knowing that she was alone. Music played outside, a flute that was too loud and singing that was drunk and off key. Her first thought was of a victory, their first in years, and the celebration that came after. She was nursing her own wounds, and did not join them.

_     You always did prefer the quiet, little blackbird. _ His gentle voice found her ears, and her eyes flew open. Light was there to greet her, but no healer and no Prince, as if they would allow him to bear the sight.  _ As if they could stop him, _ she thought before her vision blurred. She rubbed her eyes and felt no sharpness about her face. She flexed her hands and counted her nails, only to find they were intact. Her left hand was stiff and sore, but the bones were knitted at last. She touched the unscathed side her face and found she was still weak, unsubstantiated. Much of her was lost, may never be again, or simply had yet to return. She caught a fragment in the lavender’s scent, and another in the dancing chime outside, not enough but a start. What was a shore but thousands of grains, a meadow but blades of grass, or a body but its countless parts. She supposed it was the same  _ here. _

    “Strange,” she thought aloud, and was surprised at the sound of her own voice. She felt light and airy, as if she were walking through a dream and was slowly waking up. The room came into focus with each breath, and with it the knowledge that she did not know where she was. She bolted upright and felt her head fly away, taking with it her breath and balance. It was far too long before she returned to herself, lying back down and staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. With gritted teeth she pushed herself upright, kept her back stiff to keep proper form. One should never show weakness in unfamiliar ground, this was known. She froze her face as she glanced about the gentle lights and lavender scent.

    It was less of a healer sanctuary and more of a spirit house, she thought. The ceiling was low, and the threshold would have surely banged against the taller ones’ heads. The mosaic on the floor was not of any family she knew, and she did not immediately recognize the white bird among the gold. Knotwork was carved into the wooden walls, done by hand and not magic. She had seen such work before, but was unable to place where. After an eternity at rest, she went to her feet and started at the chill in the tile. It was solid ground. It was  _ here _ , and there were no clear threats, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood. She traced the unfamiliar designs on the wall and found it was smoothed by the years. Another mystery, another unknown, and she hated unknowns. A faint relief sank in when she saw the familiar glow of moonstone at the far end. It was a delicate carving, nearly beautiful in the gentle lights on the ceiling. She approached it on raised heels and found they were eyes encased in iron, adorned with deep blue gem between. There was a faint violet in the eyes, much like his. Perhaps that was what made it so comforting.

_ _

A dark feather floated down into the water without disturbing the stillness, and the blackbird appeared atop the strange shrine. She reached out to stroke its beak and only found the cool sapphire in the carving.

“What are you?” she asked, though did not know why. Distant laughter rolled in the sky and whistled in long grass.

_ _

No, that could not be. Light was the creative force, and the dark the unintended side effect, a corruption of that divinity. It was known, and surely a servant of divine spirit would know better than to enshroud itself. With her rejection the facade cracked. Void it was still, with gold eyes that did not blink, but the feathers had become scales, its talons became scythes, and its form impossible for the small temple to contain. Under its massive wings danced all that was and could be. She watched transfixed as tall grass of an unsettled land blew into a ruined altar where there was only ash. She turned her head and saw white fires burning in brass sconces. Below her, sunweb reflections shone on tilled soil and an artificial stream, and the form that drank light remained. Like early morning fog the path and possibility faded, and she returned to the cool tile and smell of herbs. Her head was aching lightly when she came to.

“Why are you here? Why do you pursue me?” Her voice was stronger but still lacked the conviction that made men tremble. The impossible form hummed, the world became a maybe, but she remained a constant.

_ _

No, that was not right. She had a guide, with a gentle voice and face. He was radiant like sunlight but had eyes like violet moonstone, and her life only truly began upon their meeting. He laughed when his wine steward broke a bottle, or when she made a sideways remark, but not to be cruel. No, he was never cruel. He was strong, and swift, and showed her the way to control the rages that did not wait for battle. His words were her lifewater, his smile a blessing, and the sun rose only to behold his grace. She watched his unfurled power on the broken pass, and she sang of his love, and her voice fell silent as he did. She held his face in her mind but never in her hands, a regret she would carry until the end came for her. It was for him that she rebelled, and ran, and read.

She snapped her mind shut. 

“You are not my Prince. I am gone from him,” she said. The smell of steel and blood reached her nose, and the ache in her head worsened. She wiped away the wetness on her face and leaned on the base of the strange shrine for support. Wood and stone became crystal and brass, and she reached downward for the burning gold. “But I shall make it right, I will make everything right, and he will never know death.” Her fingers grazed light, but felt only cool iron and tinged moonstone. Her thumb grazed the bottom of the eye as if she was wiping away a tear. She thought of the small black wings that carried his words, and how she kept every dispatch with her. The tears came again, for she no longer had his writings.

_ _

The roof was gone and the walls were ruins. Crushed stone and spirits littered the landscape as black wings soared in a blood red sky. There was a terrible shout, fire and falling meteors that set the world alight. She touched the ash and found only fertile soil from the potted lavender. She blinked and returned to the gentle lights and herbal scents, suddenly overcome with weariness. She backed into one of the stone altars and wiped the sweat from her brow. The black wings and gaping maw stayed with her. She had seen those ebony wings before, just now and millennia ago. Time meant nothing to their kind, as it meant nothing to her.

“Was that you?” she asked. “Your wings are as void-black. Why must you burn?”

_ _

She wanted to take offense, but it was the truth, the only truth she knew. This was not her home, but it was. The ground beneath her feet felt correct but the tile was wrong. She remembered the stars above and how they had moved through the sky, the mountains that had shrunk, the moons that were somehow darker. The gate at the east was gone completely, though it stood tall and proud for thousands of years prior, and the great city that grew around it was now only two crumbling towers. Last she saw, the gate was rubble and white stone that dammed the river, but was still there. The city was empty and long claimed by interlopers, but it too was still  _ there _ .

Something had gone wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong. She backed away from the iron and moonstone, and realized just what it was.

_. _

Dread crept into her blood to spite the gentle words, as she finally recalled where she had seen the worn knotwork on the wall. Such a pattern was new, novel, unpolished and stolen from their own workings. It lacked the elegance of Elven craft, instead bearing the bluntness of Atmoran hewing. The moonstone gaze became a glare, the radiance above an unbearable brightness.  _ Still, be still, do not flit about like a frightened bird. _ She gripped her dagger and whispered his words, holding each as she fought a growing headache, tracing her steps beyond the dreams of the past days and the nightmare at the mountain road, past the dark-robed Altmer and red-eyed man, to the first breath of fresh air in days, weeks, but not months and surely not years, surely not _centuries_. She recalled the dust, the aged brass that was new when she last saw.  _ It was cold, _ she remembered. _ They would have never let their oculory fall into such disrepair. _ She remembered the apparatus above her, smooth crystal and reinforced with brass, as she broke their first one, tore it apart with her hands and raging magic, and read the words it imprisoned. 

She realized it was the long dark of winter when she went under, and now the outside air was of a late summer. She had only been among the brass and blinded for only twelve days, she counted on her arms, the markings plain to see when she rolled the sleeve. Cold steel shot through her heart. The racing thoughts silenced, quiet as snow, as oppressive as the breathlessness on the pass, for his last whisper took all the air from the world.

“No,” she whispered. She could not have been gone for so long, surely not. Her chest swelled and pushed against the mended rib cage, threatening to tear her apart all over again. Her vision became spotted and clouded as they wished it would. “No, no, this can’t be.”

_ _

    “Where did I go? Where did you bring me?” Words were a labor, half stuttered and fumbled. North, she held that like a talisman, she needed to go north, but this was not the broken shore, the city that had yet to fall.  _ Does Saarthal even exist anymore? Did it fade into never like Valeihame? _

Void black closed its eyes, and its words violently shook her awake.

_ _

She was silent at first, dull and dumb from the words she followed until  _ here _ , until  _ now _ . The air tickled her skin and burned it, took it away and left her exposed. She breathed stone and soldered brass as it cooled, and dulled, and dusted from years of neglect. Beetles scuttled across her ashes and in their chorus her words were lost. “No.. No. No, _ no no no no. _ .” She patted herself for the comfort, his favor, the moonstone metal and gentle eyes. The hilt was there by her side but the warmth was not, as cold and lifeless as he was. A sharp pain ran through her head that thrust the world into black. Blinding white flashed and she found herself on the floor of the temple, face down in shallow water as it was dyed red. She forced herself up to find the water was clear again. “No, no no this can’t be.. I can’t be..” Her newly returned voice was lost in the panic, lost like all else. She suppressed a cry and moved about the temple, fumbling for a way out, any way out, any way at all that would take her from  _ here _ . Declawed fingers scraped and scratched at the air, only for them to find and topple the strange shrine of moonstone and cold iron. The maybes no longer danced before her, taken away into a never, and all her desperate grasps would not find a hold. Lightless words sang to her and willed her to stay.

_ _

  
“I am not your child!” yet she cried out as a child would. Hot tears blurred her vision and shame burned her cheeks as a form in brown robes emerged from a hall. She snapped to the movement with her scouting eye, and cold horror paralyzed her.

    It was a woman of Atmora that stood before her, soft and short when they were meant to be crude and hard. All became dark and stone and harsh bitter punishments, gone from lavender and gentle light and cast into white-hot fire and hatreds older than the temple’s foundation. A mortal heart threatened to burst inside her as the immortal one beat on, and her throat squeezed tight and froze shut. An urging told her to breathe, breathe,  _ breathe little blackbird _ but he was dead, dead and gone, how could a Prince speak when he is dead, she saw him die and beheld his last moments, and it was a silence heavier than all the world’s weight, _ how could he speak when he is dead, dead now and for all time, dead because of you _

_      _

    Focus was a foreign word, and how could one breathe when the air was on fire and a hated enemy raised her hands and opened her mouth to speak dreadful words.  _ No no do not listen, theirs is a banshee’s shriek you would lose more than your hearing if you take their words in _

    The pink skin in brown robes spoke in nonsense and silence. Her words were drowned by the was that was not, for she could only speak and not _shout_.

_      _

    “ _ No! _ ” Her legs were heavy in the dark as possibilities were born and shattered before her, sudden and violent. This place was empty, abandoned, then gone altogether. It was never built, for they never stopped the slaughter of healers. She held her head and pulled at the hair, touched twisted skin that was the absolute. She was here, and so was it, but nothing else was,  _ no one else was, is, will be _ . Tall grass burned and dark skies only became darker as each star above was devoured. The air was heavy, too heavy to breathe in as she fled. The door was forced off its iron hinges when she crashed into it. Solid wood splintered against cold cobblestone and she found the ground. Splinters found her skin and the smell of burning flesh curdled her stomach. She rolled onto her side and became sick from the stench. The Atmoran inside called out false words and cast terrible magic to take her mind and shatter it. She drew her ivory and snarled a warning, “I will kill you, whore’s daughter, I will slash your throat and bathe in your blood--”

_      _

_     “Shut up!” _ She held her head as the world about her spun wildly. All was grey and ash and the sun was surely dead, dead and gone as steel met with skin and roars met with begs for mercy. Through the cacophony she heard a cry in her native tongue, muffled for his own was cut out. “Arevus? Arevus, is that you?” she scrambled to her feet and wandered half blind through the air. She called out again for her silent lover before she remembered. He went under with her, and his solemn vows were betrayed. He ate, and he forgot, and he would not call out to her for he was gone. Two more whispered in his stead before becoming one with the air. “Lahera? Eniye?” And the dancers did not return, how could they, for one perished in the two year night, and the other on the broken pass. She called out for names that came to her, then recalled their deaths and their breaking. She recalled the few, then hundreds and thousands, and how they each fell before weeping ebony and roaring laughter above her. Her face was alight in dark fire that burned her red. It would never fade but she  _ lived, I lived why did no one else _ \--

    The music of the outside became a jeer, the eagle-behemoth glared fire, and she found her legs at last. Shouting her countering wards, she fled, and fell, and fled again. Down into bramble and searing ash she went, through the razor thistle and into the snow, into the possibility that would become a never if she failed to reach it, to reach _him_. She pushed on, each step a labor, thick and heavy as the world and worlds pushed back. Through the shroud that suffocated her she knew he was there, she only needed to hold her footing and press onward. Her leg caught in a trap and the world snapped shut, holding her fast like the jaws of a storm bear. She cried, and fell, and watched helplessly as he fell too. It was a sword she saw, one of cruel steel, and it found his heart and her love and their hope.

_     “My Prince!” _ she cried out, but her voice was silenced as he was, slipped away into the unyielding dark and gone from her,  _ gone forever _ . She wailed, and snarled, and made to join him, be swept away and torn apart, turned to ash and dust in the blowing wind, and the paths closed from her.  


_ _

An untouchable mother whispered a meaningless apology, thunder split the sky and her head wide open, and the maybes merged violently into one absolute. Her brethren wailed and wept as their skin became ash and their wills became broken, then faded into the dread silence. Their cities and gardens crumbled and scattered, forgotten to all and known by none, not anymore. And still she remained _here_ , where the doom of the Elves became manifest, and the Snow Prince gazed empty at a clear sky, and the stone face of Ysgramor smiled coldly at her.


	11. Just Guys Being Dudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the Thalmor. A little bit of emotional vulnerability never hurt anyone, at least until it does.

The new armor was steel plate, stronger but also heavier than the treated Aldmeri moonstone. Valano destroyed one of his grand soul gems to enchant the steel and keep Rulan warm for the coming winter. He wasn’t the only one without official Aldmeri dress; Valano left his issued wear at the Embassy, and wore only fur lined mage’s robes. Haafingar wasn’t as cold as the Pale, but the cold would come soon. He wondered how they would do if they kept camping as they had been doing. He wondered if they would fulfill their mission before winter came in. So far it seemed unlikely; none of the agents in the field have reported anything, and for some reason they were heading west, not east where they last knew the Elf was. He asked one night as they set up camp over Dragon Bridge why the apparent lack of urgency.

“Opportunity seldom comes to those who chase it,” the mage answered. “Besides, I’m taking every chance I can to take a break from the hustle of Talos hunting.” He laughed at his own small joke. Rulan laughed as well, but couldn’t shake off the gnawing unease. The exhilaration of his meeting with the Emissary had worn off, and the uncertainty came in like a harsh wind. To help his nerves, he tended his new sword once again. It was a fine steel like his plate, but lighter than he expected. It was still shining from the last cleaning, and once again Rulan’s hands and thoughts were idle. He had questions, so many questions, but for the first time since he signed up to be a Thalmor agent he felt like it was alright to ask.

And so he did, just as soon as Valano's mediation finished.

    “Why are we heading to Markarth, sir?” was Rulan’s first question. Valano looked up from his kettle as it set it above the fire.

    “No need to call me sir,” he answered with that easy smile. “There are two friends there that I’ve been meaning to catch up with. A fellow Thalmor agent, and an.. Well, he’s not affiliated with the Aldmeri Dominion, but he’s valuable nonetheless. I figured if our target emerged from a Dwemer ruin, what better place to start than with the authority?” He chuckled. “Who knows, perhaps another Snow Elf emerged from that ancient city.”

_     Snow Elf _ . It still made Rulan shiver to think about it all, the first chaotic seconds, the days she spent fighting them even through paralysis magic and the siphons on her wrists, just how close he was to dying.. He shook those thoughts and once again looked over to Valano, who was humming an old folk song as he prepared the mountain flowers for brewing. The mage always seemed prepared, always so sure, and Rulan wasn’t. It was worse than intimidating.

    “Can I ask something else?” he finally started.

    “Of course, anything.”

“Well.. How did you know?” This made Valano pause. “I mean, I’m not questioning you or anything, Syrabane knows you’re so much smarter than I am, but.. How did you know what it was?”

Valano laughed gently, like it was a joke Rulan made by accident.

“Our own Elenwen asked me the same question when I told her, don’t you worry,” said Valano. “I’ll tell you the same as I did to our Emissary. First, a question. Do you remember our brief exchange? What did it sound like to you?”

Rulan racked his head before answering. “It was like Aldmeris, but not. Like it was wrong.”

“Ancient languages are like that, my boy. Pronunciations drift, certain words fall into obscurity, and then there’s the issue of dialect.. If you ask me, I still have a hard time understanding some of our Khajiiti allies, even those who decided to learn the Aldmer language! But this wasn’t Aldmeris, you know. No, it was no other tongue but Falmeris.”

“I thought they spoke Old Aldmeris like we used to?”

“We believe they  _ used _ to, and it’s entirely possible that Aldmeris was spoken among diplomats and expatriates. But remember, time and distance create schisms in all aspects of society, and language is no exception. Ah, but I’m getting off topic. The first giveaway was the language.. Oof,” Valano smarted from the kettle and cast a simple healing on his burned finger.

“How did you know it was Falmeris?” He felt it a stupid question.

“Elenwen asked me the same thing, or rather, if I was sure. To put it plainly, I spoke to her in Falmeris. I was perhaps a bit rusty, but I told her to stay her hand and we meant no harm. She was.. not as polite.” Valano studied his scout’s face. “You’re.. Wondering how I knew, yes?”

“Well…”

“It’s no worries! Truth be told, I didn’t really know it would work until after I tried it. Such is the way of research, I suppose. There was one tip off. Well, two. The first was, ah, there’s no polite way to put this: she looked odd. Far too pale, and the face..”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but..” Rulan trailed off, but was quietly encouraged. “Is that how  _ we _ used to look?”

“I blame the harsh conditions of ancient Skyrim, to say nothing of the disfigurement. But I digress. It was enough to make a guess, albeit an educated one.” He paused a moment to check his tea. “Ah, needs a few more moments.. See, I spent a good portion of my life studying under my great uncle Athellor. He was a bit fanciful, but in hindsight the man was a genius.”

“Was he a researcher?” Another stupid question, but again Valano didn’t seem to mind.

“He was! One of the main contributors to the Museum of History, in fact. You see, he dared the trek to Skyrim and the island of Solstheim, and it was there he found irrefutable proof of our ancient cousins’ existence. Over on that snowy island, he found the armor of their Prince.” Valano motioned Rulan closer as if telling him a secret. His eyes were less gold and more orange in the firelight, and just as bright. “It just so happened that our captive held a piece of his armory.”

“The dagger!” Rulan exclaimed. He remembered that bit cold. He thought it strange that such a ragged thing had something that even he knew was valuable.

“Exactly, my boy! Exactly! I knew the sigil on the sheath like I know my own name. The second and definitive proof of what we found..” There was a small, dreamy smile on his face. “In all my years of study, I never once dreamed I’d make a discovery on par with my dear uncle.”

The world seemed to grow, or rather Rulan shrunk. He tried to think of something to say, something about the Snow Elves or even a piece of ancient history, but nothing beyond surface level knowledge came to him. It would’ve been no use. Surely Valano already knew, he thought.

“You know, Elenwen’s taken to you,” the mage broke the silence with a smile. “She had nothing but glowing words regarding your assessment.”

“My assessment?”

“The interview, of sorts? She asked you to recall all you could at the Weynon Stones, and was mightily impressed with your account. It was very nearly flawless.”

“Oh.. Thank you?”

Valano laughed and moved the kettle from the fire. He set it on the tree stump they’d been using as a table.

“Give that a few moments to brew, it’s still rather hot.. And I’m just stating facts, my boy. We all expect a certain competence in the Dominion. You’d be surprised at just how difficult it is to find! Take our own Ocanim, for example. A great hunter, and probably one of our more successful persecutors, and yet he fell in an instant. Do you know what he did wrong?”

“He underestimated his target, right?” That was the first rule he was taught in training. A too proud soldier could die from something as simple a skeever bite.   
“Precisely. You stood your ground, yet kept a respectable distance. When she tried to attack, you used your Ward. People like Ocanim are useful, but their pride ultimately makes them fodder. You on the other hand, you have the sort of mind to play this for the long run.”

“Thank you,” Rulan managed. He felt it wasn’t enough, but it was all he could say. Compliments had never been easy for him to accept. It dawned on him he said “thank you” twice over the span of just a few minutes, and he went tight at thinking it was said too much, too soon.  _ Is there another way to say thanks _ ? Now he was thinking too much on saying too much. He wished his mind would shut up.

“If I may?” asked Valano. Rulan nodded, glad for the break in his thoughts. “What made you decide to become a Thalmor agent? I’m glad to have you, but I’m.. Well, I’m curious.”

“Oh, well.. To tell the truth, I never really thought of doing anything else. I mean, it was the Thalmor who stopped the Oblivion Crisis, we helped with that dictatorship in Valenwood.. I mean, we’re helping people and I want to help, in any way I can.”

“That’s a noble reason. I expected nothing less of course, but still. It’s nice to know I’m not travelling with another brute looking for an easy stipend.” Valano poured himself a mug of mountain flower tea and took in the warmth. The steam tinged his cheeks a faint pink.

“What about you?” Rulan asked.

“Mine is a little more straightforward, I’m afraid. I’ve always had an itch to see the world, and I did so as soon as I finished my studies. What I saw was a world in strife, in need of guidance. It seemed only natural to join the Dominion and their cause. I’ve been among the Thalmor’s ranks since then. Let’s see, that was..” He stopped and counted on his fingers. “Oh my, it’s been just over sixty years now. Not the longest tenure by any stretch, but I like to think of myself as a seasoned veteran.”

“Were you involved in the Great War?” He regretted asking when Valano’s face dropped. For a moment he was gone off somewhere else, and Rulan could only guess where. “Oh.. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..”

“No no, it’s alright. Yes, I was in the Great War. I was mostly behind the scenes, as it were, but a few battles.. Well, the less said the better. Nothing we can do now, am I right?” His smile returned, but it didn’t feel sincere.

“Right.. Of course, you’re right.” Rulan shifted in his seat. “Have you been to Skyrim before?”

“Oh, yes! As a researcher first, over in Markarth. It’s there I met Calcelmo, you’ll meet him soon enough. Brilliant man, just eccentric enough to be interesting, and we share a common interest in our ancient cousins. Even after I finished my studies and joined the Dominion, we’ve kept on friendly terms. Even housed me on my more independent excursions.” Valano looked up at the stars and sighed happily. “You don’t see a sky like this in Summerset, that’s for certain. The Nords aren’t the most hospitable, but they do live in a beautiful part of the world.”

“I wouldn’t even say hospitable.” Rulan muttered. The look on Valano’s face told him that he wasn’t as quiet as he thought, and he tried to walk it back. “I mean, I can.. I assume, what with the war and..”

It didn’t work. Valano watched him with a concerned look on his face. It only made him stutter more.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Valano suddenly. Rulan accepted if only to try and change the subject. He took a sip only to have a stray flower petal stick to his tongue. “I had no idea you ventured here before.”

“I haven’t, no.” Rulan didn’t mean to sound so curt. It was a struggle to keep his voice even.

“Oh. Oh, I see..” Valano went quiet then. His own tea steamed in his mug, but he didn’t take a sip. “If I may ask, who was it?” There was a knowing sadness in his voice.

“It was my father. He was.. He fancied himself an adventurer, and..” His face went hot and tight, and he wasn’t sure if it was sadness or shame. Men don’t cry, soldiers certainly don’t, and there he was, wet faced like a child standing in the kitchen as his mother came apart. By the time Rulan brought himself together, Valano was watching him with a deep sorrow. “Ehm, sorry. That was.. I’m sorry. You didn’t need to be.. I didn’t mean to..”

“I had a son once,” Valano said. He broke his gaze on Rulan and instead watched the darkening wood. The tea in his hands became cold, not that he seemed to notice it. “He was a shy boy, always was, but he was so full of promise. I urged him to follow in his father’s footsteps, see the world.. And now he is gone from me.” 

“Gods.. I'm sorry, sir. Truly.”

“No, no need to apologize. It was my fault, as much as it was the..” Valano sipped his tea. “Ugh, it’s gone cold.”

“Oh, let me sir.” He offered a freshly poured mug after wiping the rim with his cloth. Valano accepted and took a long, quiet sip. He was clearly fighting back tears. “It was the war, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, the war.. He was a scout, my poor Andil. He was taken by our enemy. It was towards the end of the War, perhaps months before the Empire conceded.” He stared into his tea, eyes wet. “He returned, but they had already.. I couldn’t do anything for my boy. He was too far gone for me to save.”

“I’m so sorry, Valano..” It didn’t seem enough. For the love of Mara, the man’s son  _ died _ , and all Rulan could say was that he was sorry. What else was there to say, he thought.  _ What do you say to someone who lost a child? _

“Thank you, Rulan. Truly,” he said. Age crept into his voice. Valano coughed it away and sipped his tea. “My own apologies. I shouldn't be weighing you down with my grief.”

“It’s okay, really,” Rulan reassured. That was new to him. It wasn’t a bad feeling, he thought, just new. “I think there are more like us, you know? We aren’t many to begin with. I think.. I think a lot of us knew someone, or had family who were cut down. Not really a matter of if someone you love dies, but.. When.”  


“I think you’re right, my boy.” The Valano he knew had finally come back. He dried the corner of his eye and gave the scout a smile. “There will come a day when we’ll no longer carry that burden, but that day is not today. Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re the one who brewed it, sir.”

“No need to call me sir, Rulan. It feels too formal.”

“Alright sir-- I mean Valano.” A wind blew into their camp from the southwest. It reminded him of the seabreeze back home, the ones that came after a tempest in the open ocean. “Can I ask one more question?”

“Of course.”

“How long did you and Ocanim work together?”

“Three  _ very _ long years. This is cruel of me, but I was more than a little relieved to see our little Elf kill him so quickly. The  _ noises _ he made.. Ugh.” He shuddered. Rulan couldn’t help but laugh.

“Like a cow chewing cud! Was he raised by Nords?”

Valano snapped his fingers. “Maybe that’s why he was so good at finding Talos worshippers! Rulan, you’re a genius!” He laughed, light and genuine, and Rulan immediately felt better. He didn't ever think to talk of his father, or anything to his fellow agents, but Valano made it so easy. He understood. It felt strange, but not unpleasant. He wasn't alone, and that eased the tension in his shoulders. For the first time since he arrived in Skyrim, he felt at ease.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.


	12. Skyrim Trauma Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will my feral Elf ever catch a break? Survey says..!

    The first night was noise, the crashing of thunder as she was carried, ivory flashing and red splashing across her. She was pursued, first by foot and then by beast, arrows and animal howls. By second daybreak they succumbed to her dust and their own fatigue, only for their shades to continue the hunt upon light’s end. She fled them all, swifter than their wolves in any form. Ysgramor himself could not catch her, what hope would his companions have to finish what he started. Her lungs burned, legs ached, and her sides were stitched, but she closed herself to the pain. _Do not stop,_ she urged. _If you stop, you will die, you will die and so will everyone else._

East was her first choice, guided by the rising of the sun and moons for the stars were still rearranging. She weaved through the tall grasses, avoiding the tilled lands and settled homes that were not even a dream when last she saw. Her feet burned on the wicked plains, the false gift that tricked their sovereign as his subjects became crooked, and she closed herself off as she flew. Two steadfast towers stood before the moons as she neared the mountains, fading and shimmering but still _there_ as she drew nearer and nearer. Their shouts echoed in her head, the first cracks formed in the gate forever closed, _no, no I cannot be too late again_

 She called out with her rending voice, tore the air and nearly found a hold in her desperate grasps, and as she reached the broken gate and crumbling towers she pushed the world back. Her song sundered the skies, her countless selves pierced through the veil, and in a golden instant she beheld the city of the penitent.

    __

And again she was pulled through the eyes of needles and storms until her harsh landing against a worn stone road. White stone and stoic guardsmen became smoke and ash, and in their stead, half-decayed and limping, did two paltry towers stand.

    “No, no no..” she whispered to the eternal skies with a mortal voice, for the immortal one fled from her throat and had yet to return. She reached for the pale white only to find dull and dark grey, as dreary and plain as their second city. All other words caught in her throat, and in desperation she wailed a call of distress. _They cannot be gone, they have to be hiding, as they did before--_

From their keep emerged a raider in ragged leathers, fat faced and stout, Atmoran in blood but not in voice. His shouts were drowned by her own, and in pieces he fell into the waters below. Sulfur stung her nose by high noon, and by the sun's descent she realized it was all that remained of their gardens. Steam rose from the cracks that buried the chasms horrid words created, and in the vapors she heard their poison songs. The skies blackened as they did before the caustic rains, and she fled from the first burning drops. Their acids sank with the rainwater into the roots of Olndwen and her communes, and the branches withered into dry tinder. The roars of their fires overpowered the forest and their songbirds, and the music of Early-Autumn became ash and silence. The ways were taken, the paths closed and lost, and directionless she twisted in the sulfur winds until another fragment returned, a command from moments and millennia ago.

    _North,_ the command echoed. _Saarthal. End it before it begins._ It was in her own voice, part of a plan made in haste so long ago _but it just happened, I was just there--_

    She turned on a drop and flew north as the blackbirds did. She found the snow one daybreak, and her footprints were glistening crimson against the white. The night shrouded her trespass through a long-forgotten camp, high sun saw her through a wayward pass. Without wings she flew past the snowbound mountains as the skies again became dark. The northern stars revealed themselves after thousands of years, and she followed to the night where it all began. Ruins were all that remained, a grand city compared to the nothing they left in their wake. Interlopers of a different nature prowled its garrisoned walls that were worn to mounds, their scaffolds haphazardly strewn about on a war site. In the snow she concealed herself before they saw her, and in the white the whispers of the dead reached her. _How many more will they find?_ They asked her in the white, louder as each joined. _Did we die in vain or in honor? Have you seen her? It hurts, it hurts I want Mother--_

    She fell away, holding her head and shattering her illusion, the early dawn a blur of grey and distant voices. Soft bodies in rough robes made heavy steps that snapped her out of her daze, and she fled them as they called her. They did not pursue, only watched from the ruins their ancestors left to rot. It was a cruelty she could not comprehend; the children made from earth and spite slaughtered thousands to reclaim their dark city, and through their own neglect it became little more than a pile of rubble. Like a plague they had spread to the south, and the west, to say nothing of the north, where they had settled to spite their own frail defenses.

In vain she searched for even the most remote sanctuaries and found only wilderness. The priory that had rejected her was nothing but smooth sandstone, her favorite hideaway where she spent her nights with Arevus and Aumriel now an empty cavern in the ice. The five cities of their most prosperous empire had become dust and never, and she _knew_ , she knew and still her head dropped to the east and she called out. For one fleeting moment was the pale white light of his home _here_ , the blazing light in the grey, his absolute against uncertainty, his steady hand and unyielding love. For one instant Auransel remained, and already was beginning to fade and shimmer.

_ _

    Wings fluttered, and a weightless burden pressed on her as its voice filled her head. It was not the roar of a storm at sea, but a gentle current that urged her along. She kept her head turned back and did not dare to blink. Fog and maybes crept into her sight, clouding her vision and the distant lights, and she quietly pleaded to leave them be, offered her life for theirs, it was not a fair trade but so many wished her dead, and there were children in those sanctuaries, _please, leave them be, they did nothing wrong, they have nothing to do with this.._

    And then it was gone again. The jewel of their empire, the spires and solarium, his home and birthright, it was all _gone_. Her face burned, and her legs refused to move any further under the black sky, and so like a serpent she crawled through the drifting white until the moons could no longer gaze down at her, until her sight became too blurred for it to matter. _They have taken our homes, our temples, everything._ _I am too late,_ she whispered into the earth, for none were left to listen. Warm darkness soaked her eyes, and she closed them to the world. She had failed them, she failed her sworn ward, the unblooded and innocent, her Prince, and so she had been cast out as punishment.

    _ _

 

    The dawn was what roused her, but its light was pale and wrong. The morning light was cold when it once warmed her blood, cloudy and distant when it used to be a solace. Without feeling and without urgency, she rose from the snowbank that concealed her and stood in silence. Without a watcher and without a routine, she stretched her legs and breathed in the cool air, and without a purpose and without direction, she again began to run. It was all she knew to do anymore.

    _. _

    But she could try, she could run until the winds saw fit to claim her. And so she did as the sunless day gave way to a moonless night, as the stars were clouded over, and the snows were as dark as the silent city below. A directionless wind blew west, then south, past where one lift was no more, and another lay half-buried. They were here once, _she_ was here once, one needed only to find the way in.

    _ _

    _“Go away!”_ she screamed at the air where the blackbirds no longer flew, and the sky became grey. In its weakness a maybe flitted past, one bright with their magnesium lights and machine noises, and like a reckless kitten she chased it. It winked in and out of her existence, she needed only to grasp it--

    One only needed a careless step to fall, and fall she did into the earth below.

    She knew not how far she fell, only that it was broken by a pool of stagnant water. Like driftwood she found a shore, and crawled through foul smelling mud until she found a stone landing. She forced the water from her lungs and rolled onto her side, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Brass glinted against a faint and flickering magnesium light, casting long shadows on the worn walls. She reached out to a nearby pipe, and found no heat radiating from the brass. She touched the thick grate to find it was cool to the touch. _They are not here,_ she thought. _Their steam vents hold no warmth, and they hate the cold._

    The air was far too cold, but humid as they liked. She held her breath and her sides as she finally rose to her feet. The first step was her last for a moment; either a sprain or a break, she could no longer tell. She leaned against the pipe for support, half walking, half sliding through the hall. The stench grew thicker with each stumbling step, the lights dimmer, her breaths shorter as the metal became damp, covered in thick viscous liquid. In the blackness around her was skittering. Scarabs, she realized. Their fat and annoying pets were roaming, feeding on the waste their machine-slaves could not dispose of.

 _Then why is the air so foul?_ She drew her hand back and wiped the muck, _please just be muck,_ on a damp stone corner. The skittering grew nearer as she dared to approach, and with it a faint blue light. She looked with her left eye and realized it was not one but hundreds of pinpointed lights. They seemed to pulse in the dark, like a heartbeat.

    Metal struck distant stone, like a great weight crashed down. She snapped to the source to find darkness there, but nothing more. The hairs hairs on the back of her neck raised.

    “Who goes there? Come out,” she called, first in her tongue. When there was no answer in her tongue, she switched to the under-speak. It amused them to hear her falter at their language, but they would answer all the same. The Dwarves could never stand leaving a room without making a final statement. Her answer was a faint clatter that made her jump. She drew her dagger that was still so cold, whispered his mantras to keep her steady.

    Silence was her answer, as oppressive as the darkness. She drew back from her support, gritted her teeth as she forced both legs to stand straight. The sharpness had faded into a throbbing ache, and adrenaline began to numb even that.

    “Show yourself,” she called in three tongues. Again metal crashed against stone, and the dark hissed without steam, in a tongue she knew and did not, and she held her mouth shut to keep from making another sound. _Foolish thing, what was I thinking--_

    Dull _thuds_ echoed through the hall, and she realized it was not the cacophony of their machines, theirs was too arrhythmic, too uneven, and machines did not snarl. _Still, be still, do not show your fears so easily, they will take them and use them._  

    But she was afraid, all gods keep her. The Dwarves were gone, their tunnels and below-cities in ruin, but something remained. They had others in attendance, scarabs and slaves and machines, surely they had all gone too, what else could have happened? Her kin were happy and stupid under their poisons, but helpless, so helpless. _Surely they starved, there are worse ways to die, and things worse than death--_

    Bare feet pattered on damp stone, and the scarabs followed not far behind. Low growls and guttural snarls surrounded her, and she swore there was warm breath against her neck. She darted away, past the oppressive dark and back, back from whence she came. She followed the cold metal and flickering magnesium, eyes wide in search of a way out, any way out. Behind her the sounds only persisted, clicking and sharp grunts and her own pounding heart. She once could fight her fears as fiercely as she did her foes, but there was a foul darkness here, one that she could not face, to do so would to be gaze into the gaping maw of Lorkhan himself. The feral sounds behind grew nearer, and nearer still, and with it the clacking of the scarabs grew louder and louder. As her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness she could see them.

    There were people here. Hunched over, pointed ears, thin and meager. With them were something else, large and swaying and with far too many legs. One growled, or squealed, and then there was movement. She finally found her legs and ran through the dark labyrinth, each desperate step on knives. _Move, move, move or die, and I cannot die here._ She darted through, turning any corner she could, scrambling over rubble and all gods knew what else, until at last she found pale moonslight--

    The way ended with a smooth rock face. There were no holds to climb, no hidden halls or alcoves in which to hide. She turned back to the noise and the darkness. _No way out but through, but through is dark, so dark--_

    Black bile shot out from that darkness. She dropped down as it flew above her, hitting the rock face with a low hiss. Rivulets flowed down and onto the earth, leaving tiny holes in the rock. When she thought to look towards the source it emerged halfway from the shadows. All she saw were its mandibles, sharpened and dripping viscous black.

    It spit again. She fell back, arms raised, and its venom melted cloth, corroded iron, and set her nerves alight as it burned her skin. _Distance, I need distance_ , but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to gain space. She closed her mind to the growing fear and moved to counter, answering the thing’s squeal with a snarl and feint. A cold and slimy thing grazed her face as she moved to its back, thrust the blade between the chitin. It screeched and thrashed as she drew out the blade for another strike, knocking both dagger and Elf off of it. The ivory hilt flashed in the dim light, then was swallowed by the darkness as the walls closed in. Claws erupted from the closeness, finding her and tearing cold against her skin, sharp and snarling and sickening. A hand grabbed her wrist, another her hair, a third and fourth her shoulder and the loose tunic, tearing, pulling, violent and dark and things worse than death, _not again not again never again_

 _“Get away!”_ she shrieked, then shouted. As if pushed open by a great gale the masses opened, hot iron and viscous black spilled across and around her. The iron on her felt weak, loose, and sparks of her magicka finally escaped through its trap. It was enough. All her focus went into the towering black before her, now recovered from her frenzy, its too-many legs writhing and drooling mandible clacking. She willed her destruction into the world, and after an eternity of suppression it manifested. A volley of piercing frost threw the wretched creature back, her spears in its chitin. Its low chittering became a sharp squeal as beat against a wall, then all became dread silence when it fell. She crawled over its corpse and felt blindly for his favor, and counter the blessed stars that the blade did not chip. Dagger safe, breath heavy, she cast a small Radiance, and finally beheld the creature that assaulted her.

    It was not a scarab of theirs, for the beetles could not move when they grew too large. The chitin had the familiar black sheen, the jaws of the same shape but far too large, but it was not fat as it was tall. Its front legs curled and became forever stiff, but the palps on up its sides continued to wriggle and writhe, not yet knowing their owner was dead. The shadows cast between its mandibles nearly gave it a face, one that gasped, and howled, and squealed in hunger and rage and hatreds poison-black. Pale and hazy eyes stared out without seeing, and the slit of its mouth leaked dark blood. The droplets sizzled as they made a small, melting pool. _What is that?_ She held her mouth to keep from screaming. _What in all skies is that?_ It moved like their scarabs, sounded like them, but was wrong, mutated.

_Corrupted._

    She moved to behold the rest of the scene. Red and black painted the hall, the floor strewn with the dead too deformed and torn to see what they once were.All that remained beside were the tools. She picked one up, a crude and dull knife with a rounded body, made from the beast she killed. Someone made this, out of untanned leather and scavenged parts, but someone _made_ this. In her idleness the Radiance flickered away, and all at once the darkness became alive with movement. Her shaking hand cast a knit on her sprain, the warmth barely felt as the magic moved through her blood and soothed her burns. She cast another Radiance if only to see the carnage and the dead beast, the shadows beyond dancing and snarling and skittering.

    Another corrupted beetle skittered just out of sight. She snapped to attention, blade ready, hand trembling. She stammered out a prayer, her first in years, to any who still listened, _keep me, guide me, I cannot stay here, not where we all met fates worse than dying_. They could not hear us below, one curate argued, for the bones of the earth made us mute. To willingly sink into the ground was to forsake the sky and dawn, and so the dark was the only one to answer, not with a command or a song, but a growl. The squeal of scarabs joined in a grotesque chorus, and from that darkness did their blind handlers emerge.


	13. It Ain't That Bleak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaidan, on the other hand, is doing great, and is finally getting back to his old life.

He always had an eye for the difficult jobs. The note posted at the board made it sound so simple.  _ Looking for an able man to retrieve stolen heirloom, _ it read.  _ Will pay handsomely. Talk to Camilla at the Riverwood Trader for details. _ Kaidan thought it would be something simple, maybe a gaudy trinket that some bandit made off with, or an old necklace already heading to Riften. Given the current run of luck, he really should’ve suspected it would be a gold dragon claw in a draugr-infested barrow. If there was any consolation, he managed to get a promise from them: half the promised payment in exchange for all the supplies he was missing. It was a trade weighted in his favor, but the siblings were willing to honor it. Northeast, they said, in Bleak Falls Barrow. Camilla offered to show him the quickest way to the ruins, but the tone of her voice and her brother’s obvious disapproval was all the hint Kaidan needed. He left them for the mountain in that moment, and by the next midday he found the ancient barrow.

The exterior was lightly guarded for such a large ruin. Kaidan only faced four bandits before finding the entrance, each just as uncoordinated as the last, opening the great doors and slipping inside before any survivors came across the bodies. The entry hall was dark, and the air was tinged with the cold stink of undeath. Ignoring the stale air, Kaidan took a breath and urged himself onward. Kaidan had been in his share of ruins, but Nordic barrows and crypts always made him uneasy. The noises in Dwemer ruins were almost always the machines, to say nothing of the eerie silence in Ayleid structures, but in the old burial halls of Skyrim it was either a giant spider or a draugr. He’d squared off with both in his time as a bounty hunter, but it didn’t mean he particularly liked it.

At least for now his opponents had the right amount of limbs. Just ahead were two bandits huddled by a small fire, probably the last he would see from here on out. One was clearly getting angry.

“Are we just going to let Arvel run off with that claw?” she complained loudly. The Nord beside her groaned.

“That Dark Elf wants to go on ahead? Let him. Ain’t like he’ll get far without the extra muscle.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, you idiot. What if he dies down there? Then we’ll never get the treasure! I want my share!”

“Look, Harknir is heading down there while you’re complaining. He’ll either bring back the damn Dark Elf or the claw. Now shut up and go keep an eye out for trouble.”

The Nord woman grumbled and removed herself from the warmth of their small camp. She readied her shortsword and shuffled into the dark, straight to Kaidan’s hiding spot. He readied his bow and one steel arrow, held his breath to better aim, and released. The bandit just looked his way when the arrow found her neck. It wasn’t a quiet death, almost never was, and her companion jumped to his feet.

“Soling? Soling!” he called out as he stumbled away from the fire and to the body. By then Kaidan readied and loosed his second arrow. It flew true and shot into the bandit’s bare chest. The Nord stood there stupidly for a moment, only realizing what had happened when he felt the arrow shaft sticking out. He groaned something, then fell dead beside Soling. Two quick, clean kills. Kaidan suspected it wouldn’t be this easy the rest of the way. Anything involving bandits and barrows always had some unpleasant surprise waiting for him. There was another bandit further down, lying next to a lever. Poison darts littered the ground and the Nord’s corpse. A quick frisk of the body found a few septims and a scrawled note Kaidan couldn’t make out, but no claw.

    “Gods dammit.” His target was further down, past the locked gate. A puzzle lock, one that still had the answer relatively intact. No ‘clever’ hints or tricks this time, a small stroke of luck he was glad to take.  _ What were the ancient Nords even thinking? _ He wondered as the last pillar finally gave way to brute force. It slid and locked when the whale faced him.  _ It doesn’t exactly take a genius to solve these things. _ He tied a rope to the lever and pulled it from a distance, just to err on the side of caution. Another small bit of luck: the gate opened with no complaint, and no swinging axes or spike pit traps waited when he crossed the threshold.

    Sword at the ready, Kaidan moved through the rundown hall, taking care as he made his way down the rotted wood stairs. It wasn’t long before the floor grew sticky with webbing. Stray silk drifted through the stagnant air, catching against his hair and armor. Batting it away was useless; it would just catch on his gauntlets. His footfalls must have carried, for all of a sudden a man cried out.

    “Harknir? Bjorn? Soling, any of you! Please!” he pleaded. Kaidan watched for any traps as he drew closer he got to the webbed stone pillars. Dessicated corpses littered the ground, still tied up tight in webbing. “I’m sorry! I know I ran off, but I need your help! I won't run again! I promise!”

    It had to be the thief. At least he wasn’t far. If Kaidan’s luck held,  _ please for Zenithar’s sake _ , he would have the claw and be back in Riverwood before nightfall, all things depending on the next few vital moments. Taking a breath to brace himself, he cut through the webbing and stepped into the darkened room. On the far end was a Dark Elf, tied up in a spider’s web.

    Finishing its work on the Dunmer was the second largest frostbite spider Kaidan had ever seen.

    “Of bloody course.” He drew his sword just as the spider turned around. It clicked its mandibles, already dripping with blood freezing venom, and crawled towards him. Two of its eight eyes were missing, and the left front leg didn’t bear the rest of its weight like it was supposed to. Kaidan kept to that side. One sharp thrust found the beast’s side, and pale blue spurted out when he pulled out his sword. Another strike, this time a wide and practiced swipe, and eight legs became seven. Copper and squeals filled the air, then the cold of its venom. It was a near miss, only a few droplets seeped past his plate and into the dark wool. That was enough to deaden the nerves and slow his sword arm. “Shit.”

    “Kill it!  _ Kill it! _ ” the Dunmer in the web cried.

    “What in Oblivion do you think I’m trying to do?!” If only spider stomachs weren’t strong enough to dissolve metal. Even then Kaidan was sorely tempted to just turn around and leave the Elf to his fate.  _ Think of the bounty, _ he thought with gritted teeth.  _ Think. Of. The bounty. _ It was the motivation needed to land another blow, a savage swipe that took three eyes out. The spider screeched and lunged. The trapped Dunmer shrieked like a child.

    “Will you shut up!?” Kaidan shouted. He thrust again, his sword piercing deep into the creature’s remaining eyes. The giant spider squealed and spat its venom, mandibles gnashing for skin and armor. He pressed on, the blood freezing venom dulling his senses. With a roar he forced the blade down. Pale blue blood and white brain spilled into the rusted grated below. The spider twitched, then dropped, dead at last. Kaidan took a moment to lean against the webbed wall and catch his breath. There was always something in these crypts, and if the worst he faced was a giant spider, he’d consider it a good day.

“You killed it? I mean, you killed it! Now cut me down before something else shows up!” The Dunmer’s racket shoved Kaidan back to Nirn.

_ This son of a bitch better have the claw. _

“Where is it?” Kaidan asked forcefully. “Where is the claw?”

“I have it! I know how it works, all of it! I’ll show you, please just let me down!”

“The claw first.”

“Do I look like I can move?” The Dark Elf squirmed in his binds to prove his point. “Cut me down and I swear it’s yours. I’ve learned my lesson, or my name isn’t Arvel!”

“If you double cross me, I swear..”

“After seeing you deal with that spider? Not on my life!”

“Fine. Hold still.” Kaidan readied his longsword towards the bottom, the sharp blade cutting effortlessly through the finer strands. The spider was thorough in its work, and more than once the sticky silk caught around his sword.

“Could you hurry it up?” Arvel scowled, wriggling in the trap.

“You want down or not?” Kaidan shot back. “Almost... There.” He stepped back as the Dark Elf dropped onto the ground. He was covered in webbing, some still pulling apart as he picked himself up off the ground. “Now, the--”

Arvel suckerpunched him, right between the eyes. The dark room spun, white spots flashed in and out. Kaidan knew he stumbled back, but didn’t know if the wall caught him or the floor. Between the ringing of dull and distant bells, he could hear the Dunmer laugh as he disappeared, deeper into the barrow. Still dizzy, Kaidan gave chase down the narrow hall, only to find the bastard thief was long gone.

However, he left plenty of draugr to deal with.

 

Kaidan tracked the bastard through undead, skeever, and one particularly angry frost troll. His sword arm was sore, his nose was numb to the stench of undeath, but his fury kept him on the trail.  _ I am going to kill him. I am going to rip his spine out from his throat. _

    In the meantime, the draugr bore the brunt. He never feared the undead, not like some bounty hunters, and the sleeping ones were dull enough to slip past even in the heavy plate Kaidan wore. Some were stirred by the Elf that charged past, and a fight was unavoidable. Kaidan sent a score of the walking dead back to Sovngarde by the time he reached the massive hall. He was out of arrows, almost out of elixirs, and out of patience.

    This one was different. It was open, free of clutter and draugr. The walls were miraculously intact, the carvings telling a story. The end opened up to stale, cool air, and the sound of running water and the echoing laughter of the Dunmer. Kaidan hurried inside, over the stream and to the main chamber, and finally caught up with the bastard. The Elf didn’t notice him as he made his way up the worn stairs and to the word wall. The gold claw was tightly gripped in his hand.

    “At long last, it’s mine! It’s all-- What in Oblivion?” The Dunmer stood stupidly at the barren room. “Where’s the gold? The jewels? Where in all corners is..” He trailed off just as he turned around. A Draugr lord rose from his resting place, sword unsheathed, a desiccated face twisted in a permanent grimace. It stared at the Elf that disturbed his rest. “Oh, fuck me--”

_     “Fus Ro Dah!” _

    The chamber filled with the roar of thunder. The Dunmer thief flew back from the Shout’s force, straight into the stone of the word wall. He fell like a rag doll to the floor, leaving a trail of red down the wall. His body twitched; the draugr opened its mouth in a soundless roar as it brought the ancient Nord sword down onto the helpless Dark Elf.

    “Shit.. Shit, shit shit..” Kaidan whispered. He took a step back just as the ringing in his ear subsided, and he was suddenly very aware of how much noise his ebony and steel made in the empty barrow. It Shouted, by the Nine the draugr  _ Shouted _ . He never knew the draugr to wield that sort of power. Hell, he thought it was a lost art, gone the way of the ancients.  _ Dragons were long since gone too, _ he thought.  _ And there’s talks of shadows in the sky. _

    The draugr growled and looked around the main chamber. Kaidan retreated into the shadows, sword at the ready, all his aches and fatigue forgotten. His attention split between the hulking undead and the gold claw, close yet so impossibly far away. Sneaking past would be impossible, and he had no arrows left to take the thing down from a distance. A full on assault was surely suicide, and he had the sinking feeling he couldn't leave without alerting the draugr.  


    Kaidan took a deep breath, said a silent prayer to Talos, and braced himself.  _ Victory or Sovngarde. _

    And he rushed the undead. It opened its mouth to Shout again. Without thinking Kaidan struck the draugr across the face, the gauntlet dislocating the dragur’s jaw and leaving a bruise on his knuckle. It lost its form, sending a misdirected and weak “ _ Fus _ ” into the ceiling. A stalactite crashed down as freezing iron swung out. Kaidan fell back as the ancient Nord greatsword screeched across his plate. Unfatigued, the draugr overlord struck again, and again, each savage swing the walking corpse gained more ground.

    “ _ Faaz! Sosaal! Dir!” _ it snarled, jaw with a strong downward blow. Kaidan deflected the blade with his own, rushed to its side and returned the favor. Ebony pierced brittle mail and rotted skin. He withdrew as the draugr turned, arms tensed, mouth open to unleash another Shout.

    “Oh not you don’t!” Kaidan thrust again, into the weak chains and through the draugr’s gut. By luck or skill or divine intervention the overlord lurched and lost his focus. He sharply pulled his blade out, and luck found him again as his blade found the space between pauldron and chestplate. The thin blade cut through the withered bones and dried flesh like straw. As he backed away the draugr stumbled and dropped greatsword and lead arm alike. It mouthed a soundless curse before it finally fell dead. Kaidan finally lowered his longsword, glad to be done with this place.

    Almost done. He picked the golden claw up from the dead Dunmer and dropped it in his back. He decided to use the Elf’s furs to give his blade a quick wipe down before sheathing it. A proper cleaning would be needed soon, but this would have to do for now. Kaidan turned and nearly left before something in the corner of his eye moved. He drew his sword, ready for another fight, nearly said something to edge them on when he found the source.

    It was a slab of rock in the draugr’s sarcophagus. Nothing more. Kaidan let out a laugh at his own paranoia. “Just a useless.. Wait.” He drew closer to the inside and picked up the slab. The front was carved with Nordic symbols, a dragon on the bottom and a crude map on top, scored with marking points. The back was etched with runes, the same that were carved on the word wall.

_     And somewhere else. _ He looked at his own sword. It wasn’t a perfect match, but they were far too similar for it to be coincidence. Kaidan sheathed his weapon and stared at both stone and wall, a hundred thoughts and a thousand questions running through his head. It had to mean something, surely it did. The sword belonged to his mother once, or so Brynjar said. Could it be a clue, a direction? But he didn’t even know what language it was, let alone how to read it. Surely there was someone in Skyrim who could. He considered the College, but quickly threw the idea out. The less he dealt with mages and their ilk, the better. Kaidan spent a long time between the wall, the etching on his sword, and the stone in the sarcophagus, his mind running in circles. It was too much to be by chance, but he wasn’t a Nord, that much was clear. His sword was a gift from someone he never knew, and the only person he could ask was dead and buried. He swore in frustration and picked up the old stone before putting it back down. Asking around would raise too many eyebrows, draw too much attention, but he couldn’t just leave it. There was finally a connection, no matter how tenuous it was, and he couldn’t let it alone.

    “Okay,” he finally said, to himself and the dead draugr. It wouldn’t be suspicious to take it with him and ask the traders what it was worth, or if they’d seen anything like it. Maybe he would get lucky and one of them would at least know who to turn to. Worst case scenario, he still had a decent treasure, which meant extra coin in his pocket. His mind made up, Kaidan picked up the slab and made for the exit. It would be a long trek back to Riverwood, and he wasn’t about to make camp in a crypt.


	14. The Funny Thing About Rock Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .. is that you can only go up from there.
> 
> Content Warning: This one does mention a number of suicide attempts. They all fail, but if you really (understandably) don't want to read through it, skip to the end for a quick summary.

    Day, night, it mattered little. Moons and sun melted into the other, and through the grey their union produced she wandered. An idle hand traced the hilt, as it had done thousands of times before, but his comforts and commands were gone, gone altogether, never to return. Another, still numb from the bite of their frost magic, fumbled with a tarnished band, found in one of the hovels underground and wrenched out from a crude totem of chitin and untanned leather. Time had ravaged the delicate details, but a small gleam of Faneril craftsmanship remained in the band, still gently humming with the magicks of the Star Diviners. She had been to their tower, only once, on the rare day she allowed herself a reprieve from the war that raged outside their walls. A Diviner traced the cheekbone of her unmarred side, examined her aiming-eye, and determined she was born under Trinimac’s Protection. _A dual-edged sword certainly, but in your case it is more a blessing than a curse,_ he mused. He wore rings, one for each finger, set with smooth stones with colors that moved with the borealis. She never saw him again, but found his rings, the silver tarnished, braided into the thick red beard of a berserker, and now only the one, faded and corroded in the palm of her hand. It was said the Elemar stones would sing if exposed to direct starlight, for even though they had fallen away from the realm of their kings, they lived anew in this world. Idly she turned the small ring about, and for a moment the dull gleamed with the rare gem. She thought to bring the piece up to her ear, to listen to the gentle music of the aether, but the stars would not show themselves. They had left too, she thought as she slipped the band over her thumb, for her fingers were too slim to keep it still otherwise. Perhaps they went below as well, and in the dark were drained of the divine light, changed into something the gods looked away from in disgust. Out of deference of their forced choice or shame from her failure, they seemed so similar now, she hid away, eyes to the earth, wandering only when neither sun or stars would bear down on her.

    She was found, not by the sun or star or friendly face, but by blue banners and the clamor of steel. They shouted nonsense, bared their teeth and wielded their weapons. Instinct stood her to attention, ivory and moonstone readied as blue banners and battle-roars found her. They were short things, of Atmoran blood but not their bulk or their horrid sundering shouts. They were just a brutish, but now so clumsy, slow, and failed to pick up on even her most obvious of openings, and when one fatal blow deflected away from her she reacted. Ivory found the first as he recovered from his failure, a fool with neither helm or gorget that bled from her small cut, grunting and gasping. Another called a name she could only half recognize, another mutation, and in his distraction he did not evade her sleight of hand, a dirty trick that severed of his nerves from the rest of him. One wore only leathers that cut through like poor parchment. There was another, a thin thing that fled, but she did not have the urge to give chase, or the will to scatter those who lay at her feet. _This is wrong. This is all wrong. They do not die like they used to, and their armor does not carry the work of that damned destroyer._ She picked up a piece, a pair of leather bracers relatively unstained. They did not burn her skin to touch, and were not of Atmoran craft, too fine the stitching was, and too small were the wrists. It made her sick to even touch the thin leather, the pinkness of their flesh, and so she left them for the wolves that would not approach until she was long gone. Their snarls and low growls still reached her ears, and so she covered them to their animal noises, for what little good it seemed to do. 

    The mist parted after days uncounted, but the skies remained grey and to spite all efforts she remained at all. Her encounter with the descendants was a spark in the dullness, though all attempts brought failure. A daring dive from a rock face would make her stumble and skid down, scraped and sprained but otherwise unharmed, and no animals dared near her for they knew she was unnatural. In one numbed state, she wielded his blade and whispered an apology, only for her hand to slip as she brought it down. Each attempt brought the smell of the storm, a whisper from somewhere that was not _here,_ persisting until she reached her last grasp for release. It was deep into autumn, this she knew for the trees she wandered through were ablaze, and the leaves drifted down. One floated onto the slow stream of a river, until the edges sank down, and the rest fell away into the currents, never to surface. An idle thought told her to try the same. _Perhaps this time will be different_ , she wondered as she waded into the shallow river, stopping when the currents reached her waist. There she glanced upon an uncertainty, not quite a maybe but could be, and she grasped it, only for the faint disturbance to fade completely. She thought to join it again, that it truly would work if she would just _try_ , and for an instant her full strength returned. The world pushed, but she pushed back to equilibrium, then pushed again, and through her will a maybe manifested. This one lead nowhere, no, that was not right, for _nowhere_ truly existed. She touched it with the tip of her index finger, and watched as it dismantled itself into fragments smaller than dust. It would suffice, she thought, and so she submerged herself, if only to drown, and die, and become less than a dream. In the greys she found a harmony, and she joined it as her uncountable selves fell away. She lay there, submerged but not, with neither care or burden as she drifted, and faded. Her eyes melted away, her voice joined with the soundless music, and again the whisper interrupted, and the gold eyes found her. _Rivers only go one way_ , the currents sighed, _and you were never a strong swimmer._ The directionless ways pulled together, pulling her with them, away from the calm and quiet and into the harsh reality that awaited. She knew she begged, but the words were lost in the deafening silence, the subtle sigh of disappointment, the music that persisted even when one would not hear it, _how could all three happen at once--_

    Wings like arms embraced, their gentle glow a brand against her exposed nerves, and she kicked and screamed in the currents, down the paths, until the fresh early air burned her lungs and the grey emerald sky of dawn seared against her eyes. When her nerves settled in place she raised her arms, the caustic burns a dull sheen against the pale light. The red and blisters remained, as did the scrapes and black cuts. She touched them to find they were still sore, from their poison or her reforming she did not know. _Damn it all,_ she whispered without a voice, for it had yet to return in full. She made to rise as her legs returned beneath her, stumbling from her own weight. Vertigo took over, forcing her to lean against the short rock face that was her support. Her haze disappeared entirely, allowing the storm to rage. Anger, shame, grief beyond anything she had felt before, each a piercing gale, howling like the dying and the dead who did not yet know they were. Thunder, not hers but theirs, rolled in a distant sky as a shadow flew over the cloud cover, and the first heavy tears dropped down and cut through the dust and red. She clenched her fists tight. _I keep failing. Like a tossed about novice I keep losing, I keep missing, I keep gods-damned failing, he would surely weep if he saw me now--_

    Claws broke her palms, warmth dripped down her fingers. Instead of relenting, she dug further, and further still, teeth bared and fist shaking, raised it high if only to drive it down into unyielding stone. Sharp white pain shot up her arm, and she made to scream at the absolute, turn it to dust and nothing. All that escaped was a hoarse whisper. A voice had come back, but it was the wrong one.

“Useless,” she hissed. She raised a mending hand to first her throat, then the fractures of her fingers, forcing air through her lungs as the splintered bones regrouped. The bruises and dark cuts she kept, if only as a reminder of her failures. She felt for her dagger once more, and as she did so the air became thick with electricity, though the skies produced no lightning, With the static came an unfamiliar scent. Sweet, floral, but not of her home, not of anywhere _here_. It was gone upon her next breath, replaced with thick ozone. A shock of static electricity jabbed her fingers as she flexed them. “No, no, not you again..”

_ _

    It no longer appeared as a scroll-bearing blackbird, no, that disguise was abandoned completely. The prize she sought laid buried in its breast that was not a pure shadow, but obsidian. No, the color of midnight, no, ebony, a slick of refined lamp oil, coals from the censures, black as the end, or the void that remains after. Its hide neither absorbed or deflected the rain; the droplets instead fell into the black, to resurface in a far off desert, or upon parched grass, or into the open mouth of a drowned man.

    “Leave me,” she said, voice still soft. Instead, it dared closer, out of concern or mockery she could not guess, and with them came the eyes that watched. She picked a direction, anywhere besides the east from whence it came, only to meet it again, for it was in all directions and none, _here_ and not all at once.

_ _

    Its words ignited a spark, a flash of heat in the stillness and the cold. Her time here was a blur of panic, confusion, and now at last did the first fresh heat of her rage return.

    “Leave me,” she warned. It would not. She raised a fist, clacked her teeth in warning. In answer, it rose and spread its wings, shielding her from the rain but casting no shadow. It lowered its head to defer, or to condescend. From its eye another drop of red fell, and from the tear did gleamblossom grow, and wither, and feed the earth with its death. Star-flowers erupted then, the petals bruised and falling away from the downpour.

_ _

_“I tried!_ ” she cracked, and shattered, and her voice was a shard of crystal, cutting and bleeding. “I tried to set everything right! I tried at the broken pass, only to watch my Prince perish with sword or spear or five-damned _daggers!_ I tried, over and over, and what did it leave me with? What did _you_ leave me with? Nothing! Less than nothing! My home is gone! My battles are lost! My people--”

    Her stomach roiled, and she became sick, clear and bile on grass that morphed into damp and worn stone, geometric designs stained with glistening black and the dark red of their blood and hers, arms shaking not from weakness but the bite of their frost, weak but still theirs, still hers. She blinked the tears away and found herself in open air again, the eyeless faces and pale eyed scarabs only a memory, a daytime terror. No, she had known terror, and cruelty, and wore the aftermath with quiet dignity. Her life was spent standing against the invaders of Atmora, held the line against the crash of their steel and the rending of their roars, stood as they took her face, the promise of a name, and all that she could not bring herself to mourn. For thirty years, she fought, and suffered, and refused the reprieve of death. She ran forward when others fell back, embraced the searing red and breathless white, oppressive black and the deafening laughs, those damned laughs, and returned every ounce of their hatreds. Three times they nearly had her, and three times she emerged, scathed but _here_ , and the stain never left her, but she bore the scars and the pain with a dark sense of pride, for others would have withered and succumbed. She had given everything, and then even more, all in the name of her Prince, in the name of the proud Falmer race.

    And all that remained was a dagger, a tarnished ring without its cosmic gems, and a half-faced, nameless soldier.

    She dropped to her knees. All light gone, from the sky and her life, she crumpled, and broke, and screamed until the grass dried and frosted, and she sorely wished for a familiar hand to strike some sense into her, a scathing word to rouse her, a stark reminder to keep on, _they are suffering more than you,_ but none remained. She raised a sharp hand to her marred side, snarled every insult ever hurled at her, drew the blade of her Prince to look at her own wretchedness, all in vain for they were gone, gone forever, never to return. She wanted first to blame them, to hiss and scream _This is the price you paid_ at those who so readily went into the deep, into the dark that seeped into their eyes and took their wit, their skill and memory and left only an uncanny shell, before the shame shut her mind. She then wanted to climb the towers and sunder the gods that slept and left countless prayers unanswered, pleas unheard, offers and curses and threats hanging in the air, only to fall away, and join the sharp scales and black wings, let their creation turn to ash and nothing. She wanted when she never had before, never dared to, and more than anything she wanted to lie down and die, to end it, and be done, for she was finished with war, with fighting, with life.

_ _

    Her limbs ached to move, but she tensed them and willed herself to stay, for to rise was to stand to attention, to obey, and war, and she was tired of war. A fragment of her from years past, when her face was still soft, clung to a slim hope this was a dream, a horrid nightmare that went on for far too long. _You thought the same before,_ the earth mumbled as a heavy drop of rain stung the rawness of her face. Above her, gold eyes closed, red dropped from the black scales and onto her chest, and the maw opened to truly speak.

_ _

    Her will overcome, she was compelled to pick herself up from the ground, to break the silence, but she would do as much on her own terms. “No,” she said after countless hours of silence, her own voice shaking from her hardly contained rage, and shame, and the unique guilt of being the only to survive. “No. I am finished with this. I am finished with you.” Her lead hand twitched on the hilt of his dagger. She gripped it tight and muttered his sayings, a final prayer to forgive her, knowing it would never reach him. A small drop of comfort eased the pain as thin leather eases the blow of an eagle-forged mace, and she gripped it hard, forged the emptiness where his love once was and the tears that dropped into something of use. She raised her head to the sky, the mists in her head and around her feet clearing, and she opened her mouth to issue a challenge in the three tongues, first her own, second for what invaders that might have remained, third for the mockeries they took as truth. She called for merciful end, to find no answer, a blood-raged duel to find no eager challenger, and in her frustration, a challenge to death eternal, and at last did one reply, and she followed. Westward she went, the rains following her as black wings would, until she crested a still-green hill, and beheld the city that sprawled around the eagle-forge and the longboat of Ysgramor’s most favored general, for Jeek’s brutality nearly matched his own. It was there, of course it would be, that she found him.

    His were wings of silver, not black, and his words were boastful, powerful, fresh hot iron on her tongue instead of dull grey that dried her mouth. Once he dove down towards a crumbling tower, and the wind carried the screams of the doomed and his own boastful laughter. She abhorred such things from Men and Mer, a distaste that she carried since she was too young to be named. His were cruel, eternally so, but still she drank in the words like sweet wine. They were the rush of a chase, wings like scythes in the autumn, sweeping down to rend the fleeing cowards, and when he shouted she felt the full force.

_ _

    She took it all in, locking her legs to keep from going to her knees, watching the shadow of his wings behind the orange glow and grey veil. He shouted again, and she found herself stumbling towards the fire and flames, the frantic screams and sounding of the war horns. She blinked and for an instant she saw him land, fire coming down with the rain, setting the gold fields alight as a show of force, a signal to his lord. Shaking from anticipation, cheek sore from her smiling, she returned to herself. After countless ages she felt something besides emptiness, or rage, or the deep black of misery, by the All-Sovereign she _felt_ , and it was the wind under those wings, the lightness of the stomach during a daring drop. It was the pull towards the hoarde, spear sharpened and alight with the music of her magic, the force of the gales from the Silver Apprentices, the fluid movement of the Dancers, a clear path to her place among the sun and stars, a flare that sent chills down her spine and by sun and sky she _anticipated_ , for now, soaring and shouting like a slow-wit, she found when and where and how she would find her end. She sharply looked around for the intervening shadow, took a tentative step, another, a walk into a run, a run into a sprint as the dragon ahead roared his own boastful challenge.

_ _

    In the rain she gave her answer, rolling thunder without the flash of lightning, and towards her final path did the blackbird fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey! Yeah, so basically the Elf is depressed, can't seem to die through conventional means, and so she says "Fuck you" to her omnipresent Dragon Mom and runs off to get eaten by a dragon.
> 
> Real talk? If you're struggling with suicidal thoughts, I can't promise much but I can promise that brighter days are ahead. I can't provide much, except a number to call: 1-800-273-8255, or go to suicidepreventionlifeline (.) org if you can't talk on the phone. It's 100% confidential and judgement free.  
> You aren't alone. You are never alone.


	15. Mirmulnir and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot arrives, 15 chapters late with Honningbrew.
> 
> Note: The Dovahzul translations won't be available for this one, as Kaidan doesn't understand the tongue as the Elf does.

    The shopkeepers were overjoyed to have their trinket back, but knew nothing about the stone slab Kaidan found in the barrow. Lucan suggested the College of Winterhold; Camilla suggested he stay the night to rest his weary head, perhaps in the warmth of her cot. Kaidan didn't have the chance to accept when Lucan hurried him out, giving him an extra whetstone for his efforts and telling him to try for the north. “I’m sure one of those mages will know something!” he insisted as Camilla protested inside the shop. “Thank you again for your help!”

    He spent the early afternoon mulling it over a cold mead and a hot meal. The bartender knew to leave Kaidan alone, coming over only to provide a refilled stein as Kaidan studied his map. If it was anywhere besides the College of Winterhold, he would’ve jumped at the chance. It wasn’t the approaching winter in the tundra that made him wary, the sheer amount of time it would take by foot to reach the small town, all of that he could weather well enough so long as he was careful. _Had to be a damn mage’s den,_ Kaidan thought as he took another sip, setting the stein down next to his map. _Typical._

    He could respect healers well enough, even if most at their temples charged an arm and a leg. But sorcerers, self-proclaimed ‘masters of the arcane’? Divines knew what it took for them to achieve that power, to say nothing about the integrity of the place. All his distrust about mages aside, he bet his sword that the Thalmor have already infiltrated, and some overzealous apprentice would be more than happy to trade information for whatever the Dominion offered. It may have been unfair to assume, but he trusted magic users and their ilk about as far as an anvil could jump, and he’d been burned too many times by them and theirs to give them even an inch. He scanned his map once again, his eye lingering on Whiterun before thinking better of it. He downed the rest of his mead and set the stein away before folding the map up. He didn’t want to go, Divines knew as much, but he was tired of fumbling in the dark. IIf there was so much as an Aldmeri icon though, he would take down as many of those Thalmor bastards down to Oblivion as he could. Kaidan left that afternoon; while the Sleeping Giant was comfortable enough, no rooms were for rent. The innkeeper was travelling, or so said the bartender.

\--

    The Draugr stone, or what he decided to call it anyway, was heavy on his back, but he carried heavier burdens. The late fall was surprisingly balmy, a pleasant break from the chills form before. He avoided the roads as much as possible, more out of habit than proper paranoia. It paid off; just after he passed the first farms and the new meadery, picking up a couple of bottles for the road, he spotted a team of two Thalmor justicars, trekking north along the main road. Kaidan swore under his breath and backtracked until he found a rockier route, and stayed the course on what little high ground he could. He made camp in a small thicket that night. Whiterun’s hold offered little in the way of true cover, but he knew how to make himself scarce. “Don’t get comfortable,” he reminded himself that night as he checked over his sword and cleaned the dirt and debris from the markings. It was the first lesson he learned from Brynjar, learned before his letters or even how to handle a sword properly. Kaidan finished tending the heirloom, kept the sheathed blade in his arms, and went to sleep with one eye open.

    There was no ambush when he woke, and as the day wore on he became sure enough to venture to the lower, grassy ground, finally finding a quick pace. The roads were empty of traveller or merchant, and westbound wind carried the smell of a storm. When the last watchtower of Whiterun was in sight, thunder rang out and the first drops of rain fell down. Kaidan pulled the hood of his cloak up and pressed on. If he could pass the watchtower and veer right into the plains, he could reconnect with the road in two days, and by then the Thalmor should be long gone. _Unless they too are going to Winterhold.._

    Thunder boomed, bright orange blazed and snapped him out of his thoughts. He first looked up at the western sky, where the clouds looked less like a heavy grey blanket, and more like a sharp scythe, swirling in a half-circle. The foreboding sky moved closer, step by step, and Kaidan didn’t realize _he_ was moving towards the storm until his foot snagged on a stray cobblestone, nearly tripping him. His stomach was tight, head and eyes clear to spite the encroaching haze, and a strange mix of fear and familiarity urged him on. Thunder roared, orange lightning glowed behind the clouds like scythes, and from the thick cloud cover the light broke through.

    It was not the pale-blue shock of a storm but fire, and from those flames a dragon flew down, toward the watchtower. Men cried out, a war horn sounded, and above them all a dragon broke free of its cover. It opened it mouth, and from the rows of teeth came a terrible Shout.

    _Yol Toor Shul!_

    Fire flowed from its mouth, setting the tall grass and the wood supports ablaze. It Shouted again, _Fus Ro Dah!_ and the old stone walls crumbled as if they were made of sand. Yells became screams, and the southern wind carried the smell of burning flesh and hair that churned his stomach. Kaidan swore and willed himself to keep straight, eyes to the sky to watch for the dragon as it soared through the air. The dragon _laughed_ as it dove down, nearly crashing into the ground when it sharply flew up, head shaking. Kaidan realized with horror just what it caught as the guard fell back to earth like he was a toy, tossed aside by a fitful child. He felt first for his quiver and cursed when he realized he forgot to restock on arrows. Just as he drew his sword, what little good it would do, the dragon disappeared into the clouds, the low rumble of his laughter and Shout still heavy in the air. He didn’t know how long he stood there until a voice called out.

    “You there!” he said. Kaidan returned and found the source: a guard of Whiterun hold, wildly beckoning him over. “Come here before it comes back!” Kaidan didn’t need to be told twice. By grace or luck the dragon didn’t spot him as he joined the survivor. “What are you doing out? Didn’t you hear the war horn sound?” he asked. He was older, with a broad nose and blond hair that was beginning to grey. Kaidan recognized him; it was the guard from his first visit to Whiterun, when he left the Elf with the healers. The guard’s eyes narrowed a hair. “Say, you look familiar..”

    “I get that a lot,” Kaidan lied, keeping his eyes out to the open land and grey skies. A shadow moved behind the cloud cover. “Of all the days for a dragon to attack..”

    A third voice whimpered at the mention. Kaidan glanced over to see a huddled mass of singed armor and soot-smeared skin. Under the open helm, the other guard stared at nothing. For one brief moment Kaidan’s mind turned to the Elf as the older guard went to him.

    “Hey, hey.. It’s alright, we’re alive,” he offered.

    “It.. It killed Hroki.. I saw it.. It took her up..” the staring guard murmured. He flinched at the thunder outside, and cried out in despair when another Shout shook the stone and foundation of their shelter. “No! No not again, please no!”

    “Tor, look at me. Look at me, okay?” his companion said. “Come on, I sounded the horn, reinforcements are coming, we just need to.. Tor! Tor, _no!”_

    Tor pushed his friend away and ran when a stray brick crashed down to the floor. He shouted as he fled, “I’m getting out of here! Stay there and die if you want!” Away from the watchtower Tor fled, eyes to the sky. His watch was in vain as the dragon shot down from the clouds, veering sharply upward when it kissed the ground. Tor was gone, save for a boot that dropped down. Laughter like a roar rumbled above them, and a Shout further shook their shelter. Kaidan narrowly avoided a hunk of brick.

    “We don’t have much time,” he said. “This is all going to come down if that dragon comes back.”

    “I’m old, not blind, and I’ve seen far worse than this in the war,” the guard shot back. He scanned the outside, gripped his oaken bow and frowned. “Though not by much.. And no sign of Irileth or even the commander, and at least the Elves didn’t have a sodding dragon. You worship the Divines much, familiar stranger?”

    “As needed,” Kaidan answered. “All Nine,” he added. The guard eased some and, with his free hand, dug an amulet of Talos out from his tunic. He clutched it tightly and mouthed a prayer before he offered the steel charm to Kaidan. “I’m not a Nord.”

    “Talos will keep you all the same,” the guard said, again offering the brass hammer. Kaidan accepted and named Brynjar under his breath, though the old sot probably never made it to Sovngarde. Just outside, the dragon roared, and the tower shook. “What’s your name?” he asked. “A Nord should always know who he’s fighting alongside.”

    “Just a traveler.”

    “Suit yourself, traveler. I’m Olgmir. Ready to face certain death?”

    “Always.”

    In spite of everything, Olgmir chuckled. “And you say you’re not a Nord. Now let’s show that dragon what for.”

    The dragon was nowhere to be seen when they emerged, but its Shout could be heard across all Whiterun. A stream of fire shot down to the stone and old supports of the tower where Kaidan and the guard were not moments ago. The roof of the tower fell in from the heat and force, now that it had no one left to protect. Dust and debris mixed with the haze and dirtied the rain. Kaidan gripped the hilt of his sword, now so aware of the subtle yield of the cording, the heat and hardness of the metal beneath, the music it made when he unsheathed the thin ebony from its housing. Even in the rain and haze the blade seemed to gleam, thirsting for blood. He scanned the sky, searching for wing or scale. His heart beat loudly in his chest, not from fear but some dark excitement, and he very nearly laughed when the silver wings broke through grey cloud and orange flares. Olgmir beside him swore, readied and loosed an arrow. The steel tip soared through the air and by Kynareth’s grace, found scale. The dragon only took notice of the small annoyance when it saw the two humans below, the one swordsman and the aged guard. It laughed, low and cruel and amused.

    _“Brit grah!_ I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals provide!” the dragon taunted (since when could dragons _talk?_ ) as it hovered in the air, each beat of its wings like the heavy strike of a drum. It laughed again, embers blowing out from its open mouth. “Come now, _grind hin daan!_ _Thurri du hin sille ko Sovngarde!”_

    It opened its mouth. Olgmir clutched his amulet of Talos and prayed. The dragon let out a final, damning laugh, and began to Shout.

    _Yol--_

    Only to be drowned out by an overpowering roar of thunder. The dragon clacked its teeth, a fine rain of sparks escaping from its mouth as it turned its head to the east. It sniffed the air as a wolf would when finding prey, and flicked its tongue to taste the air that suddenly seemed so cold. It Shouted once more, not to summon fire or force but to answer a distant dragon, and flew off, eastbound. Olgmir nearly dropped to his knees in astonishment; Kaidan’s grip on his sword only firmed up. The exhilaration was gone, and in its place a familiar unease took hold of his chest, crept up to his throat and into his head as a distant crash in the sky rang out, harsh as iron against stone, thunder without a storm, a strike against Elven armor, a doom-driven answer to the dragon’s boasts. He wondered then how he knew what it was, a challenge, an agreement to meet, and fight until one died or dropped.

    “It’s.. It’s gone!” Olgmir cried out, and Kaidan was back in the present. “Where is it going?”

    “I don’t know,” Kaidan answered. “But I’m going to find out. You mentioned more were coming?”

    “Aye, but.. Wait a moment, traveler! You’re not going in alone,” Olgmir called out after him. Kaidan said nothing and left the old guard behind, his eye trained on the sky, watching the darker splotch and the orange bursts behind the clouds, into the pouring rain and towards certain doom.

\--

    The dragon was going slow, ignoring Kaidan in lieu of who, or what, summoned it. Once or twice it hovered and sniffed the air, mumbling low warnings in the clouds and the rain in its tongue. Each time it was answered, sharp and cruel and horrible, and its search began anew.

    _“Bo! Grind hin daan!”_ it called out, and its answer was such that even Kaidan could find the source. Close, he thought, and coming closer still. The dragon began to fly in a circle as a crow would, searching for an easy meal. “Here I am! _Vaat brit grah!_ Come now, show yourself!”

    Another call, not a Shout of a dragon but a cry of a human rang out, then three spears whistled upward. They glinted blue-white even in the cloudy skies, one miss, then a second. The third lodged itself firmly between two arrows on the dragon’s chin. It did not draw blood, only the dragon’s attention. Hovering, it searched the valley that Kaidan still did not reach.

    And it laughed.

    _“Joor? Ahrk fahliil?”_ it said, “Long has it been since the bones of an ice elf snapped between my teeth! _Voronit!”_

    It dove down, roaring laughter and thunder, it all sounded so similar. Kaidan ran harder and broached the hilltop when the challenger countered.

_Joor_

    The dragon cried out as if in pain, its left wing faltered in the dive, and sent it crashing crooked into the ground. The earth shook from the impact even from the hilltop. Kaidan’s heart jumped when the dust settled, and the small valley cleared.

    He heard the stories Brynjar told of the dragons of old, the slayers from Akavir and the mythical Dragonborn, but he never thought the beasts were so large. Even when the dragon’s Shouts boomed in the sky and destroyed the shelter of the watchtower, he never saw the thing clearly. The silver-grey dragon was larger than a house, at least fifty feet from nose to tail, with a wingspan half again as long. One wing straightened and flapped uselessly; the other was crooked, bleeding where the wing membrane tore, and would not fly. Though the dragon was a fearsome sight even in its crippled state, Kaidan locked on to its challenger. Before the giant, unfettered at the sight before her, was the pale Elf he carried to Whiterun. She still had the same woolen shirt from those long days, now weathered and torn. One sleeve was gone entirely, revealing old scars and new scratches, both hands alight in magicka. Another trio of icy spears formed as she threw her arms back, and launched at her will, into the dragon’s snout. None broke skin, and only seemed to further irritate the dragon. It growled, and her answer was a sharp, humorless _Ha!_ that was more of a wolf’s bark than a human laugh.

_“Faaz! Nah!”_ it snarled, and lunged its head at the Elf. She moved back, barely avoiding the snap of its teeth, and laughed another sharp, cruel _Ha!_ Further enraged the dragon snapped and bashed its good wing as a distant war horn sounded, three short blasts. It was enough to distract the Elf, and take the full brunt of the dragon’s wing bash.

    “Oh, damn it all.. Hey!” Kaidan called out, charging with his sword drawn. The dragon paid him no mind as it crawled to the Elf, opened its mouth wide.

_“Zu’u al, malfahliil!”_ it snarled, and breathed deep to Shout. Blade high, Kaidan swung down as the dragon cried out _Fus_ , and the Elf got up and ran towards the open maw, calling out.

_Al,_ the sky boomed, and the dragon’s Shout turned into a shriek that pierced through Kaidan’s skull. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh and nearly suffocated him. Kaidan held his breath, eyes watering, and drew his sword back, red dripping from the black edge. He had no time to see the cut; the dragon flailed violently with head and broken wing, stomped its feet and shook the ground, the shriek unending.  Just before it was the Elf, doubled over and gasping, and without thinking Kaidan darted towards her. She didn’t seem to notice as he pulled her away from the raging dragon. He looked back only when the screaming finally ended. His eyes still held tears from the burning smell; he blinked to clear away his sight to find the dragon flailing its head, not from the blade’s sting but the burning of its flesh. Its eyes were milky and cloudy, blind completely, and the scales about its face were blackened and streaked with fresh blood. Chunks of hide sloughed off its face, revealing tender skin and bleeding flesh underneath.

    “What have you done?!” it cried out. The Elf did nothing, said nothing, a hand to her throat, not even acknowledging that once again Kaidan saved her life. Instead she shouldered away from him and slowly raised a hand, pointed two fingers out to the beast.

    “No,” he hissed, but it was too late. A small spark of frost magic shot out, hitting the dragon in the snout. Its raging ceased, and blind eyes focused on her. “What are you..”

    The Elf shooed him away with her hand, not breaking her attention on the dragon. The same hand glowed with magic as another weak flurry of frost shot out from her hand, grazing the tenderness of the dragon’s exposed skin.

    _“Tahrodiis, nivahriin.._ Your death will be slow and agonizing,” it snarled. The dragon took a long breath, one wing back, and let out a terrible Shout.

    _Yol Toor Shul!_

    Instead of a great stream of fire, a faint ember puttered out from its mouth, not even igniting a blade of grass before the rain put it out. It growled, raised its head, and Shouted down at the ground.

    _Fus Ro Dah!_

    It was not a force that tore the earth apart like Kaidan expected, but a push of strong wind that made the Elf nearly fall back. “Treacherous!” it roared, its power gone completely. No longer able to Shout or fly, the dragon crawled on the ground, snapping at the air in its blind rage. “Face me! _Vobalann nikriin!”_ It cursed again, damning its sudden weakness and the Elf that crippled it. Sniffing the air and finding her scent, the dragon crawled towards her. “ _Dinok!”_  

    _“Ia,”_ she whispered. The worn wool shirt sagged on her as she straightened, hand on her thighs and arm locked to keep her upright. speaking softly and firing small spell after another, all to keep the dragon’s attention on her. Again the horn sounded, nearer, and Kaidan could hear the clamor of steel. The Elf must have heard it too, for she began to move to the dragon, the whispers becoming frantic speech, growing in volume until she was nearly shouting. The dragon lunged its head to bite at her; the air about her twisted, and Kaidan swore something pulled her out of harm’s way. The Elf stumbled and cried out a swear, the dragon cried out in pain.

    _“Kren! Faaz! Nah!”_ it cried. “Cursed thing!” The dragon continued to thrash blindly, shouting his rages before flapping its wings in vain, cursing when the broken wings would not take flight, and again when its voice commanded no Shout. “My teeth into your flesh! _Kren sosaal!”_

    _“Ia.”_ And again the Elf charged, stumbling over herself, towards the blinded dragon. Kaidan felt himself move without willing it, charging towards the Elf, catching the hem of the woolen tunic and pulling her away as the war horn sounded, and the Whiterun guard appeared over the hill, lead by Olgmir and a Dunmer woman.

    “There it is!” Olgmir cried out. His face was red from strain.

    “For Whiterun!” the Dark Elf rallied, and lead the charge down the hill. The Elf pushed Kaidan away and dove again for the blinded dragon, babbling. It roared and snapped; Kaidan moved to its side and sliced at its neck. The blade cut through its hide like thin leather. No longer able to focus on one target, the dragon shouted out in vain, unable to command the Thu’um.

    _“Zu’u krii ol aar, voth yol ahrk faaz! Dir ko maar”_ it snarled at guard and Elf and bounty hunter, thrashing head and bashing wing, limping as it tried to escape the half dozen of Whiterun’s guard. The only one not lashing out with blade or magic was the Elf, still desperate to get its attention, pushing a guard out of the way when he dared too close.

    _“Geh!”_ she cried out in a voice that cut through the clamor. _“Geh! Siiv dir--”_

    The rain stopped for one instant, and all the air vanished. Like a dog heeling to a command, the dragon stopped its shouting and thrashing. The cloudy eyes stared without seeing at the Elf, before slowly rolling upwards. It raised its head to the sky, and without any spark the dragon’s scales ignited.

    “Get back!” the Dunmer commanded. Her guard retreated behind her; the Elf only walked closer, trembling arms cast out like a child waiting to be embraced by a mother. Kaidan backed away, staring at the dragon as it watched the sky without seeing, until the fire overtook its eyes. It opened its mouth once more.

    _“Dovahkiin? Niid..”_ its voice strained as the flames that weren’t took its throat. Head and body and wing crashed to the earth, dead and gone. The bones scattered about the earth. Kaidan could see the notches where his sword cut the bleached white. He checked his sword again in stunned silence, expecting a chip but finding none. He looked up at the Elf, who stared at the skeletal remains, her hands on the dragon’s skull, rocking it as if it would wake up. Behind him the Dunmer housecarl and the small squadron of guards that stared, unbelieving, at the Elf.

    “She didn’t just..” mumbled one.

    “Oh, but she did..” said another. He slowly approached, sword drawn but not raised. “She can’t be though, can she? The ancient hero of Men.. An _Elf?”_

    “Wait, look at the scar,” a younger guard said. “Irileth, remember that Elf Heimskr was raving about? The night we had that bad storm?”

    “When lightning struck the Gildergreen, yes,” the Dark Elf answered. “And that eyesore of a statue.”

    “That ain’t how Heimskr told it. Said it was all that damn Elf’s doing, though looking at her now..” Olgmir said, staring at the Elf. “Should’ve known she was something else, just from the look on her.. Wait.” He turned to Kaidan, finally making the connection. Kaidan’s stomach dropped when the Dark Elf turned her attention to him. “You’re the one that brought her. Of course, that’s where I saw you before!”

    “Is that so?” she said darkly. "Tell me, did you know what your friend there was capable of?” She placed an odd emphasis on _friend_.

    “She’s as much a stranger to me, and I hadn’t the slightest clue that she could..” Kaidan trailed off upon looking at the Elf, some part of him knowing that was a lie. He had to have known, from when the door to her cell broke from threshold, the smell of a storm that wasn’t and the ear-splitting noise, to the erratic behavior and the twisting of air at the border of Whiterun. _Of course,_ he thought. It all seemed so obvious, and he felt a fool for not realizing it sooner. _That’s why the Thalmor want you, isn’t it?_ he thought at the Elf. As if she heard him, the Elf finally straightened and looked to him. She looked stronger, he thought, more substantial, but the hardness of her stare was gone. Once he tracked an escaped prisoner throughout High Rock, until they came to a stand atop a canyon in Rivenspire. The weary criminal had the same look on his face before stepping backward, and fell to his death.

    “What should we do, Irileth? We can’t just arrest the Dragonborn. Can we?” the younger guard said. Irileth crossed her arms.

    “You ask me, you’re putting too much stock into myth and story. What I see here is a dead dragon. Knowing they can be put down is more than enough for me,” she said. “Bring the Elf along. You should come, too,” she stared a hole into Kaidan’s head. “The Jarl will want to speak with you regarding the dragon, and the.. Incident.”

    “Not giving me much of a choice, are you,” Kaidan muttered. He half-thought of making a run for it, before reconsidering. Running would only bring more attention, and despite what sick game the Divines started to play on him, attention was the last thing he was after. Olgmir went to his side and gave an uneasy smile.

    “Don’t worry stranger,” he offered. “You ain’t in trouble, and if you are, I’ll vouch for you.”

    “I’m not worried about myself,” Kaidan said. He gave a quick glance over at the Elf as two guards approached her, swords drawn but not raised. One raised a hand when she moved, the other preparing a metal cuff. They didn’t need to arrest her; the Elf shooed their hands away, and without complaint or counter, fell in line between the armed guards. Her gait matched theirs within a few steps, even as a soldier’s.

    No one said a thing as the two were escorted to the city. Not even the guards dared to gossip idly. It was only when the gates opened that the Elf spoke, just loud enough for Kaidan to hear.

    _“Awarthtalil ai,”_ she whispered. Her voice was cracked from the strain of her Shouts, just as Kaidan remembered.


	16. A Tree Grows In Whiterun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jarl takes the news of the Dragonborn's return surprisingly well. Heimskr, not so much.
> 
> (Disclaimer: No trees actually grow in Whiterun in this chapter.)

The sky split open the moment they crossed the threshold and into the city proper, and from the clear blue came four voices like booms of thunder.

_ DO-VAH-KIIN, _ they called, disturbing the relative peace in the city. It wasn’t the Shout of a dragon, that much Kaidan could tell. The guards weren’t as convinced and braced for another dragon attack.

“Easy boys,” Olgmir said, staring up at the sky. “I don’t think that was a dragon.”

“Then what was that?”

“It had to be the Greybeards,” Olgmir said. “Summoning the Dragonborn.. By the gods, it’s actually happening.” Irileth scoffed at his sentiment. Kaidan glanced at the Elf. She kept her head down, hands curled into tight fists, eyes on the ground as if hoping it would swallow her.  _ You and me both, _ he thought.  


“Let’s keep on. No doubt Hrongar is filling the Jarl’s head with ideas while we dally,” Irileth said, and lead the way. Her piercing glare kept most of Whiterun’s people from looking too long at the group, but Kaidan kept his head low all the same, kept his face turned from any onlookers. He bit back the urge to turn his head when a dark cloak flitted in the corner of his eye. To look would draw attention, if if there were  _ Thalmor _ here..

The Elf stopped abruptly in the town center, and would not move even after being nudged. Kaidan suppressed a groan, but only barely. He remembered the staring episodes she had, the headaches he got, and braced for an outburst that never came.

“What now?” Irileth asked. The Elf finally looked up from the ground, to Jorrvaskr and the Skyforge, then slowly to the Gildergreen and beyond. Kaidan followed her gaze to the statue of Ysgramor, or rather what remained. He knew what the Housecarl said, a stray and unlucky strike of lightning struck both the tree and the memorial, but he had never seen a burst do such damage. The Harbinger’s helmet looked to have melted into his face, destroying all features. Wuuthrad looked less like an axe and more of a poorly forged mace, the axehead proper twisted around and into itself, parts of it frozen in half-formed droplets that fell on his hands. The grasses around and what offerings laid at his feet were ash and charred branches; the ground directly surrounding the memorial was grey, ashen, completely dead.

“What in Oblivion did you  _ do?” _ he hissed to the Elf. Again she didn’t answer, and again he wondered why he bothered. She opened her mouth as if to answer, but only let out a small sigh.

    The guard behind her gave another nudge, refusing to look at the wreckage.

    “Nice and easy, lass. I’m sure you can visit Jorrvaskr when we get everything squared away..” he assured her. He mumbled something else, but all Kaidan could hear was something about the dungeon of Dragonsreach. A dread grew in him when they approached the great oaken doors to Dragonsreach. The keep was more shadow than structure in the late afternoon. It matched his mood, he thought.

    The Elf clenched her fists. Kaidan thought she was almost as uncomfortable with this as he was.

    “I’ve got it from here, men,” Irileth said. “Olgmir, with me. The rest of you, to the barracks for a meal and rest. I’ll personally inform the Jarl of your part in today.”

“Of course, Housecarl, but..”

“Go.”

With some murmuring, the tired city guard left her for the barracks. Irileth waited until they were out of sight before she rubbed the bridge of her nose and groaned.

“What is it, Housecarl?” Olgmir asked.

“Did you notice who was at the shrine to Talos?” she asked.

“There wasn’t anyone there.. Oh.  _ Oh.” _ Olgmir frowned. Irileth nodded and straightened herself. Her face became grey stone.

    “This is going to be much more painful than I hoped.” she said as she rolled her shoulders. “But it must be done. Let’s get this over with.”

“Come along now..” Olgmir said gently to the two. The Elf walked on with her back straight and head low. Kaidan wondered if she actually understood what was going on.

 

The Jarl had an audience when they stepped inside the entry hall. A Nord in scaled armor was making a case or argument, and loudly. Another in the robes of a priest was waiting impatiently, with his arms crossed and a foot tapping under the coarse canvas. One of the house servants offered to take Kaidan’s pack.

    “It’ll be safe and sound, dear, don’t you worry,” she said with an assuring smile. She was old but strong, with callused hands. A younger woman was already sweeping away the tracked dirt with a frown, aimed more at the Elf than anyone. Kaidan didn’t refuse, which was answer enough; before he could protest, the old woman slipped the leather pack off his shoulders and away, struggling with the weight. Irileth and the guard spurred them on before Kaidan had the chance to retrieve his things.

    The Jarl was still listening to the armored Nord when they were ushered to the main hall. An Imperial stood just behind the seat of Whiterun, watching the back-and-forth with a meek expression. The Jarl was not entertained; the slacked shoulders and hand to his head said he was ready for a change in subject.

“Hrongar, let’s wait until Irileth’s return before we..” the Jarl started.

“You heard the call as I did, Balgruuf. You’ve been to High Hrothgar, you’ve met the Greybeards, you know it can only mean one thing.” The Nord turned around when Kaidan and the Elf approached, lead by Irileth. He grinned at the sight of the three, and at Kaidan especially. The Nord in robes dropped his arms and gaped. An amulet of Talos hung proudly on his chest. “And I’ll bet you my greatsword that’s him.”   
“Irileth, what news?” Jarl Balgruuf asked, ignoring the smiling Nord. “Is the city safe?”

“The dragon was killed, my Jarl. Hroki and Tor did not survive the initial assault, but there were no further casualties. Of note was Olgmir beside me, and..”

“And who are the strangers behind you?” he adjusted in his chair and looked hard at the Elf between them. She turned the intact side of her face away, and did not adjust the loose strands that fell about her.

“I was getting to that. Olgmir assures me this,” she jabbed Kaidan in the side, “was the stranger from those weeks ago. And with him is the--”

“That’s the one!” the priest shouted suddenly. He was waving his finger at the Elf; Kaidan saw a clean strip of white cloth across the priest’s palm. “That’s the bitch who destroyed Ysgramor and nearly took my hand off!”

“Now, Heimskr..” Olgmir said meekly.

“Don’t you ‘Now Heimskr’  _ me! _ If you lot patrolled the city as vigilantly as you did those walls then by Talos, none of this would have happened!”

The Jarl straightened in his seat. “Heimskr, you’ve been here every day since the.. accident, demanding I do something. Your alleged culprit is here. Now I need you to clear out, for testimony--”

“A wanted fugitive is in your hall, and you haven’t sent her to the dungeons already? Look at that face, clearly this is a criminal, or worse! For all we know this could be a Thalmor assassin! She’s got the look of one, that much is obvious!” The Nord dared closer to the Elf, who stood as quiet as ever. She slowly moved her head back for air when he got into her face. “Is that it? You a Thalmor, girl? You know what we’ll do to the likes of you? Why, once we wrench Skyrim back from your grip I’ll--”

Her head violently shot forward into a headbutt. Kaidan heard the  _ crack _ of the Nord’s nose and a stifled cry as the priest of Talos stumbled back. Olgmir pulled the Elf away as her head slowly lowered, either praying or waiting; Hrongar was on Heimskr before he could retaliate, holding back the monk before he thought to turn his fist to the Elf. Irileth failed to suppress a snicker. The Jarl only looked more exhausted.

“Assault! You saw that!” he cried. Fresh blood ran down his nose and stained his beard.

“Hrongar, take Heimskr to the healers,” he said, waving them off. Hrongar only nodded and half escorted, half pushed his charge away from the throne room, down the stairs and out the door. All the while, Heimskr raved.

“You’re going to rot in Dragonsreach dungeon, you Thalmor whore! You hear me?!  _ Rot!” _

The doors closed behind them. Jarl Balgruuf leaned back into his chair, stopping anyone when they began to speak.

“Give me just a moment..” he said. He took a long, slow breath before he looked to his Housecarl. “Now, Irileth. You were saying? What happened with the dragon? There’s more to it than a simple slaying, isn’t there?”

“My Jarl, there’s the matter of the, uh.. Culprit?” the Imperial steward cut in. “We should probably get this fugitive here processed before another complaint comes in..”

“For the love of..  _ Fine. _ You there, look to me. Do you have anything to say in defense?” the Jarl commanded, voice sharper than before. The Elf kept her gaze on the floor. “You deaf?”

“Still don’t know a lick of the language, do you?” Kaidan muttered. The Elf paid him no mind. Kaidan swore he would start a tally, the amount of times he stuck his neck out for the Elf. He cleared his throat and said to the Jarl, “She won’t understand you. Doesn’t know a word of Tamrielic.”

Balgruuf stared them down. Kaidan swore he heard something in the tired Nord’s head snap. “What?” he asked quietly.

“My Jarl,” his steward offered, “he said that the Elf doesn’t--”

“I know what he said, Proventus,” Balgruuf snapped. The anger in his voice reached a boiling point. “Since that damned storm, I’ve been harassed by the Companions, that raving priest,  _ and _ the Temple of Kynareth about making arrests, repairs, plans to remedy this as if I don’t have greater concerns. There’s a war raging on outside these walls, for Kynareth’s sake, and keeping this hold from being dragged into another pointless conflict is taking enough of my time as is. And now you mean to tell me that not only is this Elf can’t speak the language of Tamriel? Where in Oblivion is the official tongue of the Empire a foreign one? And why would you bring such a person  _ here? _ ”

“As opposed to where?” Kaidan shot back, his own temper flaring from the needless questioning, the actions of a stranger, his own impatience to get out and be on his way. “If that priest is anything to go by, the people of Windhelm would sooner hang a foreigner than help one, and Solitude is no doubt crawling with Thalmor, as if we needed another run-in--”

Kaidan stopped himself. It was too late. A hush went over the hall, and the fires seemed to dim under Balgruuf’s glower.

“Start talking, traveler,” Balgruuf said in a low voice. “Where exactly did you and this Elf come from? What do the Thalmor have to do with this?”

_ Gods dammit. _ Kaidan’s shoulders slumped, caught like a bear in a trap. He took a half second before he answered. “I found her in a Thalmor prison. I don’t know what they wanted with her, at least not then, but it didn’t end well for them, I can attest to that much.”

“And what were you doing in a damned prison?”

“I heard a noise and went to investigate,” Kaidan said quickly. The Jarl didn’t need to know he was also a prisoner under the Aldmeri Dominion’s military. “By the time I found the prison everyone was dead. Except for her. I did what I could, but she was sick. Fits, a fever.. Whiterun has the best healers in Skyrim. There wasn’t anywhere else to go.”

The suffocating anger evaporated. Olgmir let out a quiet breath. The Jarl watched them both, his frown deepening the wrinkles around his mouth. The Elf kept her head low, a hand on the scabbard of her dagger.

    Finally the Imperial steward puffed up his chest and spoke. “Well, be that as it may, destruction to public property and assault are not light charges. And as the one who brought her, you’re technically an accomplice..”

“Hold, Proventus. You mentioned you didn’t know what they wanted, not then. Explain.” Balgruuf was sitting straight, his stare boring into Kaidan. He was an intimidating man. It suddenly made sense how he managed to keep Whiterun neutral when every other hold took a side in the civil war.

“If I may, Jarl Balgruuf, Proventus? Housecarl Irileth?” Olgmir finally spoke up. “Seeing as this may be related to the dragon attack?”

The Jarl raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Heimskr swears that this young lady here was responsible for what happened with Ysgramor.” Olgmir motioned to the Elf. Her arms tensed up at the name, hands curled into fists, eyes to the floor as if trying to set the wooden boards on fire with only a stare. “And after this fellow’s testimony, and seeing what happened at the Watchtower, I think it all makes more sense now.”

“And what happened at the Watchtower?”

“Here we go..” Irileth said. Olgmir only nodded, unable to hide his excitement.

“It was me and this traveler here, just the two of us against the dragon. We decided to face off against it. Maybe together we could buy more time for reinforcements. But just as soon as it saw us, it’s like.. Ah, how would you describe it, traveler? Like it lost interest in us. Like something else got its attention. Next I saw the damnable thing, it was squaring off against our traveler, and this Elf before you. She.. Shouted, my Jarl.” Balgruuf’s jaw dropped behind a closed mouth, and his eyes went wide. “Shouted it to death, that’s the only explanation I have for the noise she made.. When it died, it, the soul I think it was, it went right to her. Just like in the old stories. Like our ancestors did, and Talos of Atmora.” The older Nord’s face lit up as he talked, patting the Elf emphatically on the back. She tensed with each touch, and Kaidan was sure she would snap right in two. He motioned her closer, at least away from the Nord, but she was rooted in place. When Olgrim finished his account, Jarl Balgruuf only nodded. He was quiet for a long time, even as the great doors opened and Hrongar returned.

“I see,” he finally said. “Proventus, notify the guards. What bounty the Elf may have is to be cleared. When Farengar concludes his research on the dragons, I’ll ask him for advice on either repairing or replacing Ysgramor.”

    “My Jarl, I mean no disrespect, but how can we be so sure of Olgmir’s account?” Proventus said. “I don’t see any sign of this Elf being, what ‘Dragonborn’? For all we know it could be some magic. And need I remind you that this is a criminal in the eyes of the law?”

“Then I’ll consider killing the dragon part of community service. That good enough?” Balgruuf’s steward had no answer for him. “Good. Now that it’s settled, can we move on to the more pressing matter at hand?” With that he stood and walked to the Elf. Irileth was by his side in a flash. “Irileth, easy,” he said, his eye on the Elf. “Hm.. I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve seen my share as both a soldier and as Jarl, but you, little Elf.. You and this stranger both evade me. Seems the gods have plans for the two of you.

“You there,” he turned to Kaidan. “See her to the Greybeards. If she truly is Dragonborn, they’ll know what to do with her.” He eyed the Elf one final time with a furrowed brow. She remained as silent as ever. “And if you manage to teach her the law and language of the land, I’ll consider it a personal favor. A Jarl’s word is a powerful one, don’t forget that. And no one here will speak of the circumstances surrounding her arrival. Am I understood?”

“Loud and clear,” Irileth said. The steward only mumbled.

“Good. Good.. Now, I trust you at least know the way to Ivarstead?”

“I’ve been there once or twice,” Kaidan said. His mind wasn’t on Ivarstead, or even the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar. Surely the Elf could read a map, and he could always pick up another when he reached Winterhold. The Jarl nodded again, satisfied.

“Best not keep them waiting, then. There’s no refusing the summons of the Greybeards, and there is no higher honor, at least for us Nords. Olgmir, see these two out. Proventus, back to business. One dragon is dead, but there will surely be more to come. And Hrongar, it appears you owe me your greatsword..”

For the first time that day there was laughter. The Elf turned away from the noise and was quick to follow Kaidan and Olgmir away from the hall.

“Oh! Your things, let me go get them,” the guard said before disappearing into a small doorway. He returned in only a moment with Kaidan’s pack. “Good luck to you two! And Dragonborn.. In spite of the circumstances, it’s an honor,” he spoke slowly to the Elf and smiled broadly. She turned her head away, scar facing him. Kaidan was quick to sling the straps over his shoulders and nearly left before he realized something was wrong.

It was much lighter than before. Bracing, Kaidan knelt and undid the drawstrings to find the Draugr stone was missing. Nothing else was taken, not even the mead from Honningbrew or his earnings from the merchants. He shot up and scanned the hall for the housekeepers who took it in the first place. The old woman was sweeping, humming to herself. The other was lighting candles, and neither seemed aware anything was wrong. They didn’t look to be thieves, but there was no one else aside from the priest and the woman in a hurry.  _ Then who? Who else came here? Who would steal a bit of ruin in the first place? _

He thought of the flutter of dark robes. His chest hardened.

He needed to leave, and now.

“Something the matter?” Olgmir asked, snapping him back. The Elf was watching him beneath the strands of hair, looking just as stricken as before. Kaidan swallowed his anger, his mounting frustration, and lied through his teeth.

    “No. Nothing at all.”


	17. Making Up Dwemer Shit Is Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember the Thalmor Dream Team? Here they are in Markarth, making friends and influencing people.
> 
> (Dwemeris is hard, y'all. I thought Falmeri was hard. Nope.)

    Aside from the frozen ruins of Mzark, Rulan had never seen any of the famous Dwarven structures. Markarth took his break away.

    “Welcome to Markarth,” said Valano with a smile. “Or at least, the surface portion.”

    “It’s amazing.” Words failed him again. They had arrived before sunrise, and the city’s citizens were still asleep. Aside from a few guards on patrol they were completely alone in the reclaimed Dwarven city. Even in the quiet hours of pre-dawn, the ancient machines carried on: release valves unleashed clouds of steam into the atmosphere, no doubt powered by the waterfalls, somewhere a water mill turned, and distant metal pistons knocked in a steady rhythm. It was warm here, unlike the rest of Skyrim, and the stone and steam thawed his fingers where the warmth enchantments were weak. He had a hard time keeping up with Valano, he was so taken with the details of each home. From the roofing to the engraved pillars, every house was unique in the city. Except the doors. The doors all looked to be made from a great metal mold, probably lost to time as the Deep Elves were. “And this is where your old master is?” 

    “Indeed, though much has changed since I was here last. With any luck, our friend will have made some progress.. You know, I think he’ll like you.” Valano placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and shook it playfully. “Look at you, already taken with Markarth. Did you want to look around first? I know the place well enough to provide an unofficial tour of sorts.”

    “Oh! Oh, oh I couldn’t, no, we’re here on official business..”

    “Knowing Calcelmo, he won’t even be thinking of entertaining friends for another few hours,” Valano said. “So why don’t we take advantage and do a little sightseeing?”

    Rulan left no street untrodden. Time and the elements weathered much of the stone detailing, but the Dwarves built to last. Even the oldest buildings in Summerset had to be maintained, but here, almost everything seemed to operate as if the Dwarves never disappeared. Valano was quick to answer any questions, when he had them. Most were met with a small shrug or, “I don’t rightly know, actually.” His interest with the Dwemer was only in relation to the Snow Elves.

    “You’ve quite the eye for the details, my boy,” he said with some pride. “If I’m not careful, Calcelmo may spirit you away.”

    “You think he’ll have me?” Rulan joked. “Maybe once my tenure is over, I could take up scholarship..” As they talked, the two Altmer ventured too close to the foundry for the taskmaster’s liking. The Orc shouted at them to clear out, using more obscenities than Rulan thought necessary. He gave the house-sized brass foundry a long look as he walked away, still taken in by the salvaged mechanism that melted the silver down.

    “How does it not melt the brass as well?” Rulan asked as they made their way to the higher levels, to the homes and temples. Valano thought on it as they walked past the locked doors of the closed Talos temple.

    “Calcelmo would know more, but if I recall correctly it has something to do with the amount of pressure the air vents build up inside the foundry. The molten silver is then emptied out into a mold, typically one made of stone.” said Valano. “As to how it all works, we’re not quite sure. I suppose the secret is gone with the Dwemer.. Oh, hold on. See that leveled bit of land over here?” He pointed just above the foundry and smithy, where there was a strangely barren plot of land.

    “Near the silversmiths?”

    “Yes, just a little to the right. Right there is all that remains of the Imperial College of the Voice. Or so we think.” Valano shrugged. “Truth be told, I never understood all the fixation around Tiber Septim. If the Nords were to worship anyone, why would they choose a Breton?”

    “I think we know the answer,” Rulan said bitterly. “Can we go elsewhere? This is a Dwarven city, it is possible we can see what it’s like below?”

    “Good thinking. The sun is high enough now.. Yes, I think it’s time we go to the Keep. You know, even in all my time here, I never ventured to Nchuand-Zel.. Who knows what’s waiting within?”

\---

    Rulan and Valano both gave their guesses, Rulan’s more fantastical at first, as the guards parted the keep’s doors. The capitol building of Markarth was even larger on the inside. The cavernous hall echoed with debate from the throne room, interrupted only by the rhythmic _clang, clang_ of Dwemer machines. Rulan started for the main room when Valano stopped him.

    “First, we must meet with a colleague of ours. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.” Valano took point past an arguing Imperial and Nord and to the throne room. Rulan quietly gasped; standing on either side of the Jarl’s court were Dwarven Centurions, at least three times his size. Though the joints were soldered together, he couldn’t help but think they moved to follow him. The sight scared him. “Ah, there he is..”

    “Halt,” a strong voiced woman called to the two. Rulan shook himself free of the Centurion’s gaze and found the source. A stern Redguard in steel plate was glowering at them. “State your intentions.”

    “I’m only here to speak with Ondolemar. Tell me, is he still stationed here?” Valano asked with a smile, but his eyes were cold. The Redguard frowned sharply.

    “I’ll take it from here, Faleen. You may go now.” Seemingly out of nowhere did the Thalmor appear behind her. Faleen looked as if she were slapped across the face, but said nothing. She only gave a half-formed salute and marched back to the court. “You’ll have to excuse her attitude, I’m afraid.”

    “Of course,” said Valano. “We must suffer the hostility until they see the light, such is our lot in life. Tell me, Ondolemar, how _do_ you sneak up on people like that?”

    Ondolemar chuckled. “Learned it in Silvenar. To what do I owe the occasion?”

    “Might I recommend somewhere with some privacy?” Rulan spoke up. Ondolemar raised an eyebrow, but quickly accepted the proposition.

    “Follow me.” Silent as a shadow, Ondolemar lead them to an empty planning room. He dismissed the two Thalmor bodyguards, “and guard the door, would you?” he asked as they took their leave. Valano felt the stone walls. “Already proofed, you’ll find. No sound shall escape this room.”

    “Excellent. You haven’t changed a bit since Valenwood, I see.”

    “An idle mind is Lorkhan’s plaything,” Ondolemar said. I must admit, I didn’t quite believe Elenwen’s report. You took your sabbatical twenty-five years ago. I thought you’d never return.”

    “Twenty eight years six months, two weeks, and one day,” Valano replied. Something in his voice made him sound old; Ondolemar glanced away for one instant, and Rulan felt a tightness in his throat. “I would hardly call Talos hunting a sabbatical, but it was a sorely needed change of pace. And how go your efforts here?”

    “We’ll find out when the Reach camp finally moves, won’t we?” They laughed. Rulan didn’t quite understand why. “And who’s this? Your newest protege?”

    “Manthor Rulan Lolanir, sir.” Rulan snapped into a salute out of habit.

    “At ease. There are no ranks in your line of work, not anymore,” Ondolemar said. Rulan quickly put his arms down to his sides, but his back remained stiff. “Though there has been talk about you, how you’re a rising star of sorts.”

    Valano’s smile returned as he shook the young Altmer’s shoulder. “Elenwen herself appointed him to join me in this grand venture. Incidentally, I need something of a favor.”

    “Will this favor end the same way it did with Cyrelian?”

    “Stars, no! Well..” Valano scratched his chin in thought. “It _might_ , but I’m hard pressed to imagine you in the same situation as Cyrelian. This one will be much more simple, anyway. First off, do you have the description of our asset?”

    “I memorized Elenwen’s report and destroyed my copy. Quite the distinctive face, it has.”

    “Wonderful! Now, our mutual friend should keep the little thing busy once it returns, but there may need a.. Push in the right direction. Not an obvious one, of course.”

    “I understand, but I must ask. What makes you so certain the asset will even come here? And what of the wizard? Can he even be trusted?”

    “Ondolemar, dear friend,” said Valano in a quiet, intense tone. “Remember what Nchuand-Zel was. It’s only a matter of time before it falls back into our grasp. As for Calcelmo, leave that to me.” Ondolemar thought on it a moment, then finally nodded.

    “Very well. Should I catch hide or hair of your prize, I’ll open a Channel for you. Has Rulan here traveled in the grey before?” Ondolemar asked. Rulan wanted to ask what the fellow Thalmor meant but held his tongue.

    Valano shook his head. “It would be his first. See to it that we’ll arrive in a quiet place.”

    “Naturally. Anything else?”

    “As a matter of fact, yes.” Valano smiled coldly. “Agitate old Silver-Blood. This city’s gotten complacent.” Again they laughed, and Rulan had an inkling of why. He knew the name Silver-Blood from the brief he received upon his dispatch, that they were the wealthiest family in western Skyrim, and firmly in the pocket of the Stormcloak rebels. He smiled. Ondolemar’s placement here no doubt drove those Nords mad. Anger results in carelessness. Carelessness gets one killed. _Ocanim learned that the hard way._

    Again his throat grew tight, and only eased when Valano called for him. It was time to finally meet Calcelmo.

\---

    Valano lead the way through the tunneled out hall, staring at the ceiling when it emptied out into a massive hall. Either weather or a controlled demolition let natural light into the cave, accentuated with burning magnesium lamps. It was empty, save for two Altmer in simple robes. One was older, his robe bearing the brooch of the court wizard, his form hunched over a table and prodding at a brass spider. The other was younger, perhaps only a few years older than Rulan, and half taking notes, half cowering behind his notebook.

    “That’s Calcelmo for you. Oh, watch this,” Valano chuckled as he walked confidently towards the two Altmer. In a poor imitation of a Nord accent, he said, “You there, wizard, what are those things in the throne room for?”

    The older Altmer immediately straightened and turned sharply at the interruption. Rulan nearly cried out when he saw a glint of silver in the light; the old wizard had a sharp pick in his hand and looked ready to use it.

    “Why do I continue to be bothered with pointless questions-- Wait..” the scholar of Markarth relaxed his stance, his face lighting up when he recognized the man before him. “Valano!”

    Valano placed his hands together and bowed. “Teacher.” He straightened with a stern, calm look. It cracked immediately, and the two laughed as they gave a quick embrace. “How goes your discovery of the era, Calcelmo?”

    “About as well as it can, surrounded by simpletons and nincompoops! Ah, but the ruins beneath this city have unearthed a treasure trove of information.”

    “Has the fabled way to Blackreach unearthed itself yet?” Valano asked. Calcelmo cleared his throat.

    “Ah, no, not yet. We’ve reached an impasse of sorts, the excavation.. Ah, delayed, but I’ve sent a guard to take care of the problem. Soon we should restart the excavation. Oh, but you wouldn’t believe what Aicantar stumbled across when last we delved, and I do mean stumble! Come, look!” Rulan watched as both Thalmor and scholar rushed to a side room with a speed he didn’t expect. By the time he followed suit, both the older Altmer were staring at a brass instrument on a stone studying table. It was smaller than Rulan thought Dwemer machines would be, the diameter of the instrument no longer than the length of his arm. He counted fifteen bands of decreasing size nestled within the main frame, a pale blue orb faintly glowing in the exact center. Something that looked like a brass quill nib sat directly atop the orb. Looking closer at the bands, Rulan saw what had to be Dwemer letters etched into the bands, glowing the same faint blue as the orb in the center. Along the frame were more letters, worn but still clearly showing the Dwemer alphabet.

    “By the stars..” Valano whispered. He gently traced the letters etched into the frame. It hummed from his touch. “ _Vancherakerdaw_.. The Endless Mind of Necessity? Am I reading this right?”

    “I see your Dwemeris hasn’t rusted much. Found fairly close to the surface, just a few dozen meters below Understone, in fact. Now, I haven’t gotten those bands to budge, but I believe it was a recordkeeper of sorts. Nchuand-Zel was the primary gateway for the Falmer refugees, as you know, and this may have been used to record who handled what.. See here on the outermost band, _Kagrarkzaan_?”

    “Tonal medicine, am I reading that right?”

    “I’ve taught you well. It seems they had a system for either sending sick and wounded for proper care, or perhaps sent the sharper minds to, ah, assist with the day to day activities.”

    “I suppose that’s one way of describing it..” There was a bitterness in Valano’s voice.

    “What’s the orb in the center do?” Rulan asked. Calcelmo startled at his voice.

    “Aicantar, I told you once I told you a hundred.. Oh. You’re not my nephew,” said the old wizard. Rulan started to stammer an apology for confusing him when Valano stepped in.

    “Where are my manners? Calcelmo, this is Rulan. He’s working with me on a matter of some urgency,” he said, but he didn’t look to them. His attention was only on the rings and the blue orb. “But first, the orb. You believe this to be a recordkeeping device. Is the information stored in there?”

    “Oh, well,” Calcelmo said hesitantly, “Right. Well, in short, yes. You see, if you remove the centermost piece, you’ll find it’s not a perfect sphere, but rather thousands of shaved off edges. Even closer and you’ll find engraved ‘rings’, each alike but none a perfect match.”  
    “Like a fingerprint?” said Rulan.

    A corner of Calcelmo’s mouth turned upward into a surprised smile. “Why, yes. Much like a fingerprint. We haven’t found any others yet, but after our.. Current issue is dealt with, I’m sure we’ll find success.” Valano only nodded, one hand still on the frame of the instrument. “I know that look, Valano. You got something to say, don’t you?”

    “I do, yes,” he said. “We’re not only here for a friendly visit, I’m afraid. Rulan, the door?” Rulan hurried and closed the heavy brass doors. The faint blue-white of Illusion magic glowed in Valano’s free hand as he raised it, fingers splayed. The Muffling spell seeped into the cavernous ceiling, the stone walls, and into the cracks of the brass door. The study was deathly quiet without the echoes from the court and the distant clang of old machinery, and the room somehow seemed to dim from the spell. Calcelmo’s smile was gone.

    “ _Official_ business?” he asked. Valano nodded. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t found any evidence of the Numidium returning to Nirn, and as I’ve told the Dominion before, I have no interest in..”

    “We found one,” said Valano quietly. “I swear by our ancestors, we _found_ one.”

    “What are you talking about?” his mentor said. “You found what?” Valano straightened up and faced the scholar of Markarth, his eyes wide and bright. Rulan nearly thought they were glistening.

    Valano spoke slowly, deliberately. “What my dear uncle searched for his entire life, Calcelmo. As sure as I am here before you, a Snow Elf yet lives. Uncorrupted, her eyes intact.. And we _saw_ her, plain as day.”

    Calcelmo’s jaw dropped. Rulan’s throat grew tight, stomach light, mind scrambling for an answer. _This was supposed to be a secret,_ he thought. _What is Valano_ doing _, telling a non-Thalmor?_

    “Where?” was all Calcelmo said.

    “Mzark. That’s where she came from. She was wounded, distressed, and escaped from us. I tried speaking with her, maybe calm her down, but to no avail. She.. escaped from us, I’m afraid.” Valano’s voice was steady, even, and heavy with disappointment. Rulan was impressed and concerned at the same time, that unease he felt when they discovered where the Elf came from. _But he’s not lying,_ he realized. _He did talk with her, and she did eventually escape.._

    But it felt like a lie all the same.

    “Where did she go? Who else knows?”

    “I’m not sure. I sensed confusion, much confusion, and a great amount of hostility. She killed my assigned rochben before she fled. As for who knows, only a small number of fellow Thalmor and the Emissary. We’re keeping our secrets close, surely you understand. Skyrim is a dangerous place, to say nothing of the senseless conflict and the reactionaries in the east. If word were to get out..”

    “It could be chaotic. I understand, Valano. I do..” Calcelmo said quietly. “And you’re certain? Absolutely certain? Rulan, is that right? Did you see this Elf?”

    Rulan stammered out a “yes”, followed with, “Well, I didn’t get too good of a look, and everything happened so fast, especially after..”

    “She spoke Falmeri,” Valano said to rescue the scout. “ _Aldfalmeri._ And she seemed to understand my own faltering attempt.” Valano closed his eyes. His expression made him look old, Rulan thought. “Her magic _felt_ different, unlike ours or of any elf on Nirn, and Calcelmo.. she had the dagger.”

    Calcelmo gasped. Rulan stayed quiet, the flash of that moonstone and pale metal still fresh in his mind.

    “You can’t mean…”

    “It bore the Sign of the Sun,” Valano said. “There was no mistaking the missing piece of the Snow Prince’s armory. It was _like new,_ Calcelmo. As if she had just received the honor..”

    “A woman in the service of a Prince? But that was a position only for men, according to everything we've discovered! You yourself made that assertion not seventy years ago.”

    “Some theories are bound to be disproved. Remember the Breton who swore Queen Ayrenn was an aetherial servitor from the future?” Valano cracked a smile to cut the tension in the room. Calcelmo rubbed his eyes.

    “I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t sound.. It sounds impossible. I don’t mean to doubt you, Valano, you’re as sharp as I am, if not more, but.. Your uncle, my colleague, he spent his life and all his scholarly clout in search of the Snow Elves, and his best lead found only the barrow in Solstheim. To say nothing of the Falmer who would have surely killed any perceived outsider.. How?”

    “I don’t know, I truly don’t, but she must be found and escorted to safety. The Aldmeri Dominion will take every precaution to protect her. Calcelmo, if she comes here..” Valano faced the old wizard and placed an emphatic hand on his shoulder.

    “I understand, Valano. I’ll extend the full hand of hospitality, provided she doesn’t try and cut it off.”

    Valano sighed in relief. “I knew you would understand, old friend. It’s such a relief that you’re keeping an open mind.”

    “Yes, well, the natural enemy of discovery is doubt. If you’re certain that the Snow Elves have returned, then I should at least do my part.” Calcelmo glanced at the instrument and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “A Snow Elf in Skyrim.. I never even dreamed of such a thing. Does she have a name?”

    “If she does, I wouldn’t know it. All I can provide is a description, here..” Without waiting, Valano wrote in a strange Elven script on an open notebook. He wrote in the script as effortlessly as one would Tamrielic, and said to Calcelmo when he finished, “That should keep prying eyes away. I hope you understand that we need to keep this as quiet as possible.”

    “No need to justify it. Between the Forsworn and the ongoing conflict, I understand fully. Valano, can you promise me that no harm will come to her?” Calcelmo’s face was stern, old, set as the stone of Markarth as he looked his old student down.

    Valano answered him solemnly. “I swear to you, the Aldmeri Dominion will do everything in its power to keep her safe from the hostilities.” Calcelmo’s face relaxed.

    “That’s all I ask,” he said. He lowered the hood of his robe and took a long breath. “We live in exciting times, Valano.”

    “That we do, teacher. Oh, if I may trouble you for one more thing?” Valano asked as he touched the stone wall. The faint light blue subsided into the walls, the Muffle nullified. “I promised Rulan here a more in-depth tour of Understone Keep. Could I trouble you for entry into the Dwemer museum?”

\---

    Rulan left with Valano that evening after an extensive visit to the builtin museum. Calcelmo was, by Valano’s account, charmed with the young Altmer, appreciating his more off-kilter questions about the workings of the Dwarven machinery. Rulan even guessed right on a few of the wizard’s impromptu questions and quizzes. He was awestruck, and more than a little intimidated. While both scholars were quick to answer any questions and weren’t stingy to praise Rulan’s own small skill of deduction, they knew so much, and he, so little--

    The sky _roared._ Rulan jumped in his skin, head cranked skyward at the source of the terrible noise. The skies were clear, and blue. It wasn’t thunder, he knew thunder well enough being from the coast. _That_ was something he thought only came from nightmares. He looked to Valano, who was frowning at the clear blue.

    “What was that?” Rulan asked when the air became quiet, or as quiet as Markarth could be. Valano’s brow furrowed.

    “Remember the College of the Voice I pointed out?” Valano didn’t wait for a nod before he continued. “ _That_ was the Voice. A Shout. An old Nordic ‘art’, used only in the ways of war.”

    “What was the.. Shout saying?”

    “I can’t say rightly, but it can’t be good. If some traditionalists have discovered our little asset.. I shudder to think,” Valano said. Rulan shivered. He switched so seamlessly between ‘friend’ and ‘asset’, ‘her’ and ‘it’. It was impressive, if not a little chilling. Calcelmo showed such empathy towards the thing in spite of never even meeting it. _Or carrying the damn thing,_ Rulan thought. Though Valano took point in hauling the Elf most of the way, it was a struggle to keep it restrained. More than once it managed to scratch both Thalmor, and from the report, it did far worse to Cyrelian and his guards..

    Valano shuddered. Rulan banished his idle thoughts and stood to attention for his superior.

    “Something the matter, sir.. I mean, Valano?” he asked. The mage had a peculiar look on his face.

   “One moment..” he said, feeling about his waist. From a hidden pocket he pulled out a neatly folded parchment, tinged grey. The grey faded into off-white at Valano’s touch. “Well, this was sooner than expected. Good news only, I hope.”

    “What is that?”

    “A message,” Valano answered simply as he unfolded the parchment. Rulan dared a look at the insides and found only a crude drawing of a map. But Valano read the sheet as if it were any other report. _Is this the Grey Channel?_ He thought, glancing around to make sure no brown nosing passers-by were watching them. Markarth was a marvelous city, but the people seemed disinterested. He waited dutifully as Valano folded and tucked the parchment into his pocket; the fibers were already fading into nothing as it touched the wool. “Well, that was.. Enlightening.”

    “What is it? News of.. Of the asset?”

    “Yes, yes indeed. There’s been a sighting just outside of Whiterun hold. It seems two justicars saw it run headlong into the site of a dragon attack.”

    “What?!” Rulan’s reaction earned a pointed stare from an old Breton in facial tattoos. She shook her head and went on about her business. Valano watched this time as she left them.

    “There’s been a sighting,” he said in a hushed whisper. “They saw it and Cyrelian’s project, being led away by _guardsmen.._ ” Valano rubbed his forehead. “I’m afraid this became much more complicated than I hoped. We shall waste no time. How tired are you, Rulan? Answer honestly.”

    “Oh-- Oh, well, I suppose I could use a few hours..” Rulan said. Valano nodded and, his hand aglow in gentle green, lightly tapped Rulan’s forehead. A surge of rejuvenating energy coursed through him, from the spot where Valano touched down to his toes. He felt as if he could haul a cellar’s worth of barrels for shipment, or fistfight a sabre cat.

    “That should keep us until nightfall,” said Valano. The spring in his step was back as he marched down the great stairwell into the city. Rulan had no trouble following him this time. “I hope we shall be safely out of the Reach by then. Come now, let us see how much the stablemaster is willing to negotiate for two good horses.”


	18. Nope, Still Not Over It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elf can't seem to get over a few small things. Namely, eating a dragon soul, the passage of time, and being the last of her kind.

    The haze lifted, her vision unclouded by maybes and nevers, but her senses remained dull. She could see the sun above, but its warmth was lost on her and all color seemed dull. Every breath did not satisfy, as if she were wrapped too tightly by an untrained healer. Her head felt empty, what few thoughts she had trapped in a tightly wound circle, and her body seemed to be covered in a shawl that made the ground seem untouchable, and the sky suffocating, and the rest of the world too quiet. She could just barely hear the babbling of creeks and calls of unfamiliar birds under the persistent whine, but the music of the world was muffled by the roars that became whimpers. The words swelled in her throat and echoed between her ears, threats and promises all sounding so similar in the beast-tongue that she drank so easily. When the urges grew too strong she bit on her lip until it bled, each time hoping the pain would snap her awake. _All a dream,_ she thought, knowing it was not. Her skill was in combat, not imagination, and no fevered mind could fantom this place, this time, the impossibility of it all. The stars were not misplaced about the sky, the moons did not laugh, blackbirds did not speak in thunder or grass whistle. Yet when she looked up the Guidances were only half-seen, and the moons never seemed to cease their chuckling, and the blackbirds were gone altogether save the one illusion. Children of Atmora killed when they did not rape, and neither happened to her in their keep, and the dragons they worshipped did not fall so easily. Dragons did not fall from mortal hands or mortal blades, and those beasts devoured men, not the other way around. That did not happen even in dreams, and even the wildest of her terrors never had them _speak._ But speak they did, and surely would when given half a chance.

    The feeling in her stirred, the urge to let his words out through her mouth, and she turned all thoughts of the sky to the earth, as to even think of such things would wake him. But wake he did, in the dark of her chest where a heart once was, and upon realizing his prison did Mirmulnir weep. She learned his name when she took his essence into herself, neither of them willing, and in her did the loyal hunter decay, doomed to fade. He thrashed about at first and without wings did he attempt to break free, but only ever attempt. In the days that passed his fangs worn down to dust, the luster of his scale found only in her memory, his voice more hers now. The small part that remained begged, no longer proud. _It hurts,_ he wept, _it hurts, let me go it hurts--_

    “I know,” she finally answered him after days of silence, acknowledged him after days of denial, her own small voice overpowering his. Even her whispers were wrong now, every word a battle, for his tongue demanded an answer in kind. She resolved herself to speak only in the music of her lost language, for to let it slip away was to forget, and then truly nothing would remain. “If I could cut you out of me, I surely would.” But there was nothing in her to sever, for his essence disseminated through her; to remove him was to remove herself entirely, and all her attempts had ended only in failure. The thought made her sick; in all her years she had never failed in her tasks, and now the dark shade of failure followed her everywhere she went. _Not a dream, but a nightmare,_ she thought, but even nightmares seemed to end. Trapped in the place from which there was no waking, she wandered. There was no set direction, but she avoided where the snow would fall. The white would no longer embrace her. She no longer runned, as she was tired of running.

    Below was dull earth and above was empty sky. The only life she saw was the grass, but even that lacked the verdance she only knew grass to be. She thought to hum a measure, to whisper some life back into the ground, but her voice was only one, and she was no master of verse and argument like her father was. When she happened upon a small shrub of berries, she found them bitter where fruits were meant to be sweet and lightly tart. She would never have the wine from their fruits again, and she found it fitting. There would never again be a reason to celebrate, no more laughter, no more cracked decanters that soiled the skysilk of his robes, and she thought no more of wine or berries.

    During one night she lingered longer than normal, and watched distant firelight. She was caught by the low moan of a mourning giant, and she swayed. _Did they slay your women, too?_ She asked without expecting an answer. _Your children? Did they take your humble villages and burn them?_ She never thought to feel pity for the things, and when she was young she envied how tall they were, and wondered if the Atmorans would be crushed under their feet. But the giants were few now, and scattered, and dull when they once were so bright. She mumbled her goodwill in the rumbling tongue, as her Prince once did when they closed their gates of great-cedar, and she turned her head away from the camps and the crying. It was not her place to weep for them.

    Only once in her wandering did she face the rising sun. It was a moment of uncertainty, a childish thought that said if she beheld Auri-El’s light and did not look away she would wake. There was no warmth and no waking, and his dagger remained cold as the tarnished silver band remained quiet under the naked stars. But she could not look away. Frozen, she stood and watched the sun rise over the peaks where Valeihame once stood, and she had never seen them from so far away. She felt weakness in her knees.

 _A soldier must be well prepared,_ she heard those words once through the gates that kept the displaced from the training grounds. Once was enough for her to take them in, and repeat them the next morning. _Brace for pain and grief, for death and that which is far worse, as these are the stones from which war is built._ It was the first lesson of war, she learned later, and she learned it well. Before she knew her letters or the sublime craft of magic, before spearmanship and guile, she had the only lesson of war one could learn that did not come from the end of an axe. And she was, for every atrocity and outrage acted against her, each served as a stone to build her. She had fought with spear and tooth and nail, with broken bones but never a broken will, without fatigue or fear even as both weighed heavy upon her; with death and destruction she was well acquainted. Of grief she knew but never truly explored, but knew it reached deeper than the seas. She held the dying and echoed their last words so the gods would remember, and their names became part of her battle prayers. The living she held to better shield prying eyes from their grief, and she shouldered the burden without complaint. Pain was her oldest friend, and she knew well how to embrace it; she braced for the blows of warhammers as well as she evaded their swing, and took the tortures they devised with enough spite to enrage them but never drive them to murder, as often as she may had wished for it. She had danced along with the strikes of their doubled axes, and made their necks as red as their faces. For every grievance suffered from Atmoran hands and craft, and there were many, she repaid with a thrust of her spear, the clash of a sword, an eagle-shriek and barrage of frost that made her skin glisten as if she were made of ice. She paid her debts in full, and for a time the sycophants and war-dogs that made Ysgramor’s army retreated in fear. Those days had passed, though she knew not how many.

 _It did not matter,_ she answered herself, standing like a fool in the middle of nowhere. It truly did not matter, for the war was over and the weeping wounds left by Atmora had scarred over, the outrage against her long since forgotten. North and east were long since claimed when last she knew the wounds were still fresh, and the land was more death than life. Where cedars grew and blue-black deer loped, there were now plains; where camps of black smoke and clamoring steel once stood there were now sprawling streets and fat-faced men, and the posts from which the witchmen performed their profane craft were rubble and ruin. Where chantries once stood in splendor nothing remained, for even the cleverest of men were unable to build upon the mountains. Everything was unfamiliar and she wished to go home, but home was gone.

    She flinched, caught off guard by her own thoughts. One must be prepared, but for this small simple truth, she was not. _Home is gone,_ it came again and made a small tear in the veil, and the mist of her mind parted, and it hurt her. The more she walked and the longer she stayed, the more it sounded like a lie. But she ached, she finally ached, and one does not ache when dreaming. _Faenor is dead, and so is Mother, and Father too._ Shame burned her, for she still called them how a child would. She looked down at her hands, the band she kept that once rang silver, now tarnished, and she felt sick. _Arevus is dulled too and no doubt dead, to say nothing of what they surely did to Aumriel._ She held them tightly in her mind, but away they went, one below and one above. They were her closest friends, lovers when time permitted, and she did not save them; she neglected them both when she was needed the most, when they too mourned the loss of their Prince, and became lost, Arevus in the fog of forgetful bliss, Aumriel in grief that became wrath. Neither would have ever known such pain if she had done it right. The sky spun and she thought of the dancers, but their dance truly ended in the Two Year Night, and she did not know the steps to reach backward. She thought of her Prince, the beating heart of Auransel, and the sword that slew both. To save him would have been so simple, all she needed to do was read the words, and bend them backwards, and find the one who started this..

    But she did not. She did not bend the words of fate to her will, and so she did not find the city of blasphemes in time. She did not find the ebon-streaked face of Ysgramor, the champion of Lorkhan, and slay him. She did not save her family. She did not save her Prince.

    She did not save _anyone,_ and the full weight of her failure bore down. A black hand that gripped her throat and heart at once and squeezed the air and blood from her, and in the stranglehold she died but her eyes kept seeing, her heart kept beating even though the heart of Falmereth had long since become still, ripped out in petty revenge and tossed aside to be forgotten, doomed to rot and corrupt. Her chest swelled and shrank at once, her throat spasmed and salt stung her eyes and the wound that would never heal, and she was ashamed. _That which is worse than death,_ and she could not think of a fate worse than this. To live when all others were dead, for her presence to bring confusion in those twisted faces instead of fear, to face scale and fang and death itself, and remain alive.

    For the world to end, for her to remain in the aftermath. She became still in the tall grass, and slowly dropped to her knees. Her limbs felt weak, burning and sore as if she had only begun training, when she dropped her spear and collapsed on the bedding of straw and threadbare cover. She tilted her head upwards and found the empty sky. She turned her calloused palms upward, a show of her devotion even now. There was no wind to carry her words, no curate to guide them, but she prayed all the same. She cursed those kissed by Phynaster too often for him to give her any small boon, and she ended his part in spite. In the ways that pleased them, she beseeched the earthbones of Jephre for a turn in the ever-branching story, a conclusion to her part, and from them found silence in the wind. Syrabane offered no salve to soothe her as the Five-Pointed Star did not shine, and she would have mourned when her own ward fell silent. Her words fumbled as they always did when she came to Auri-El, for she has failed the All-Sovereign in all ways and more. Like a child she stuttered through the chants, adding an apology after every call for merciful end, to be returned in the embrace of her Prince and the warmth of the Dawn Become Eternity. By the time she found her final words she was shaking, and the burns no craft could heal ached from strain, and she wished so badly for someone, _anyone_ to answer. The gods’ incarnate may be dead, but surely the divine will persisted and would show her the way out from this place. Surely they would soothe the pain of their last walking servant, for even with all her failures and crimes, surely she did not deserve to be punished so severely.

 _ _

    Around her the maybes began their dance, and she reached for one, for _any_ , surely they were not as bleak as _here_. Her throat cleared and the pulling urge returned, and she bit her tongue to better ground herself and prepare. Warm iron broke the hold, but only for a moment. A moment was all she needed; she made herself thin and threaded herself away, into somewhere else. Perhaps in another world there are villages and not cities, and she would be content for it, so desperate was she to see another face. She found her way halfway through when the words came again, and she was knocked back.

__

    She opened her eyes and found herself on her back. The earth below breathed, she could feel it through the thin tunic, and it reminded her to take a breath. The air smelled of ozone when she breathed, and a spark cracked when she moved to keep her hair in place. _It grows impatient_ , she thought unprompted, and it was. She felt the gaze of the blackbird on her, listened to the maybes as they hummed, and she turned her head away. The earth rocked, uncertain about bearing the weight of possibility.

__

    She stayed on her back and clenched her jaw to keep herself from answering. The wind sighed and carried the freshness of winter, silent and silver. The moons chuckled in their sleep, and the sun turned its head away. Still she stayed, contrary. _I shall stay here,_ she decided. _I shall stay here and wait for the winds and rain to take my body._ It was a poor choice of words, she found as the winds became a gale that pushed her forward. Her hair fell all about her face, and when she pushed the last of the strands back the blackbird stood before her, as tall and thin as ever. Looking fully at the form, she wondered how she ever mistook it for the songbirds her Prince most favored; in this shape, it looked more of an eagle, with a neck and head as long as a serpent’s. She could not tell if the lightless black was scale, or feather, or a combination of both. Its wings were folded into itself, as her mother once folded her arms when about to lecture her.

__

    She did not answer it right away. Its words stirred and further agitated the remnant within her, and what remained of his voice hurt her throat and made her mouth dry. Taking her silence as acceptance, the blackbird moved closer without wing or footfall.

__

    The corner of her mouth twitched into a sneer, pulling at the burns, and she answered in the only way appropriate: she spat blood from her bitten tongue at the blackbird. The scaled feathers that reflected no light absorbed her insult, and without complaint or counter did the bloody spittle pass through to the stone. Again did the wind carry a sigh.

    “Leave me,” she warned in her tongue and on her terms. She had enough of following shadows, and listening to this one only lead to heartache.

    _ _

She spat once more, and familiar grief burned away into familiar rage. Her oldest friend bid her to rise to her feet, to walk away before her anger became manifest. All directions lead to the blackbird that wasn’t.

 _ _

    She finally heard enough. Between gritted teeth she growled and the clear skies clouded, threatening rain. The branches of the trees shied from her, and the pines that sparsely covered the plain shuddered. But the blackbird remained. It turned its head just so, as if contemplating which berry to pluck from the shrubs, or what to say to a child throwing a tantrum.

    __

    _“Leave,”_ and she would not give another warning. The earth beneath her trembled in fear, the skies parted in her wake, the river hushed its ceaseless babbling, the essence that coursed in her set alight. Unaffected by her threat, the blackbird remained. Slowly, it closed its eyes, and around the void shape the maybes danced. In those thousands upon thousands of possibilities, in not a single one did she see the familiar white stone of Falmereth’s keeps, hear the chimes of sanctuaries during midday prayer, know the warmth of her ancestors’ pride or the behold the proud triumph of the Snow Elves. Those countless paths converged to one, to _here_ , and when the grey returned to color the scroll reappeared in the blackbird’s talons. Her heart jumped, fresh blood surged through her veins, but she held fast. _A trick,_ she thought. _It is only a trick, it must be._ But she could not look away, and even the illusion hummed with the same frequency as the original. To look at the scroll directly made her head throb, and with each subtle pulse of light came thoughts from other worlds, directions in paths that were not _here_ , words she never heard but completely understood. All creation shuddered in its presence, as she shuddered when she first beheld it in the temple of Auransel, and again in the blackest reach, and once more when she grabbed it and ran, ran far away. It was the same scroll. It was her answer, her way to make this right. It had to be.

    “Where is it,” she said. It was not a question, but a demand. “Where is my scroll.”

__

    “It is _mine._ They stole it from our temple, the home of _my Prince_. I have more claim to it than any other.” The grass whistled, and an angry flick of her wrist set it alight. The laughter persisted.

_ _

    Her rage flared. The remains of Mirmulnir cried out, and she used his words in her curse. _“Tell me!”_ Her words were not a demand but a shout, its terrible meaning coursed through her and she revelled in it. The skies split, the moons cracked, the earthbones shivered in fear and the winds turned all directions to get away from her. Her face was sore, the gash dropped blood, and the horror of what it was she had done began to dawn on her. She held her mouth tightly, marred half complaining from the pressing of her fingers and she ignored it. She struggled to find her true words. “No, no I did not mean that, I truly did not..” But she did, and there was no use in lying to a mother. The blackbird closed its eyes as it lifted itself from the air, and hovered above. The scroll was held tightly in its talons, and she felt a sick form of pride when it turned its head east. 

__

    Under the high moons, it flew. Shaking, numbed from the horror of what she just did, she watched until it reached the peak of Snow-Throat, now silent and hollow. The mountain was sacred once, a place where one could commune with the gods and touch the sky, and only Arch-Curates and Princes were allowed on its peak. The snow that once radiated even in the darkest night now ran red from countless battles, past and future deaths bleeding as if they were present. The gentle hum of the Godspeak was silenced, drowned out by beastwords and curses that made her head spin. The mountain itself was cast in shadow, from dark wings and a darker past. _Corrupted,_ she thought with a chill in her spine. The band on her thumb suddenly felt heavy, heavy like the rest of her, then lighter than air but she did not fly. _I do not have the wings yet,_ she said without words, then cursed fivefold. Her hands went to her ears to ensure they were still Elven, then down to her neck and back that held many scars but no scales, and surely the dovah did not shed tears. The indecisive maybes finally faded into absolute, and her head throbbed. She would give anything to wake up, to truly wake up and be rid of these talks paths and of fate, of shadow and blackbirds..

    _You truly live to serve, little blackbird,_ the wind carried his voice from a long forgotten morning, and her heart fell open. She held her breath to keep the scent of orris and everbloom inside, and let go only when her body forced her to. Her next breath was a shuddering sigh, and her face stung from salt.

    “Only you, my Prince,” she answered. Her voice trembled like the rest of her. “Only ever you. It would take the crumbling of mountains and the draining of seas..” But the Snow-Throat was hollow now, as empty and half formed and broken as she was, and the seas were empty for his voice, his smile, his affections were _gone_ , and she truly understood the meaning. She felt for his dagger and drew it to her chest if only to hold a piece of him close to her, the closest she ever would be to holding him at all. It hadn’t been cleaned for far too long, the subtle carvings began to darken from residue, and she felt foolish and ashamed for it.

    Behind her a branch cracked under footfall, a voice spat in quiet harsh tongue, and she apologized to the abused blade. She would be made to wield it once more.


End file.
